


When The Reckoning Arrives

by AetherAria



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (but probably not the way you're thinking), (lmao), ... i just realized i don't know how to tag this, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Forbidden Love, IT MAY STILL BE MONDAY WHERE I AM BUT I AM DEFINITELY POSTING THIS IN HONOR OF, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday, Multi, Post-Season/Series 02, Second Citadel (Penumbra Podcast), Sir Absolon is here if you squint, Threats of Violence, background Sir Caroline/Quanyii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherAria/pseuds/AetherAria
Summary: As Damien crosses the threshold into the Citadel, the sunrise at his back and moss clinging to his boots, he is stopped at spearpoint.(AKA: There are, inevitably, consequences for being too complacent while having a highly illegal affair with an enemy combatant.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha this is the literal polar opposite to my other Penumbra fic hey sorry about that? Stick with me here, things will get worse before they get better.
> 
> Title taken from the Mountain Goats song, Heretic Pride. And like, basically the entire inspiration for this disaster. Saints bless.

As Damien crosses the threshold into the Citadel, the sunrise at his back and moss clinging to his boots, he is stopped at spearpoint.

“Pardon- me?” he says, blinking, and then there are more spears, more guards glaring at him in alarm and fury over their points. Damien raises his hands in surrender, more confused than frightened, and asks with a laugh, “To what do I owe this pomp and circumstance at my arrival, friend guards?”

“Silence!” one of them barks in what Damien recognizes as a poor imitation of Sir Caroline’s authoritative tone. Apparently she has had an impact on the ranks in the months since her promotion. “You are to be detained and brought before the Queen. Do not resist, traitor.”

Damien feels a moment of worry at the word ‘traitor’, but he takes a breath and allows tranquility to fill him. Focus, wait, learn the situation before reacting. He raises an eyebrow, keeping his hands carefully above his head. “I have no such plans as of this moment,” he says calmly. “To resist, I mean. Shall I remove my weapons for you, then?”

The guard who spoke is thrown by the acquiescence, and he hesitates before glaring with renewed fury. “Drop your weapons now!”

Damien thinks that Sir Caroline could possibly have done a better job with this particular squad. He starts to lower his hands to do as told, but the guards all collectively flinch at the movement and their spears waver in a concerning way, so he pauses for a long moment to consider the best course of action. “Shall I remove my quiver first, so you know I cannot fire when I remove my bow? Or would one of you like to take them off of me, for your own peace of mind?”

There is another moment of pause before the apparent guard in charge gestures for one of his squad to move forward and disarm the knight, and Damien would be amused by their twitchy hesitance if it were not an immediate threat to him. He makes no move to stop the man as he unbuckles the quiver, then the bow, and then the sheaf of the knife at his hip. Damien almost flinches at that – the knife is borrowed, more an object of familiarity and comfort than a weapon as far as he is concerned – but he suppresses the reaction to a mere frown. The guard _should_ bind his hands, now, Damien thinks, but the collective group seems almost afraid to even touch him. “There,” he says with levity he does not feel. “That is better, is it not? Lead on to the Queen, then, gentlemen, and I shall follow.”

It is not a particularly long walk, but Damien feels the stares of the entire Citadel as they watch him pass through. He tries not to pay it any mind, tries not to notice if there is anyone he recognizes watching as he is escorted through the streets at spearpoint, tries not to feel the lack of his bow as acutely as nakedness, but he falters in the effort once or twice.

He could have made an escape, he thinks absently, by way of distraction. He could have disarmed the lot of them, trained by Sir Caroline or no, and retreated from the Citadel before another soul managed to confront him… but what purpose would that serve? Whatever he is being detained for – and there is only one glaring, loud possibility he is trying and failing not to consider – it would not help his cause in the least if he injures someone on the guard, or if he tries to run. Damien has worried his own sins and supposed sins over in his own mind long and hard enough that they have ground down to sand, and he is finally content with the surprising realization that where Arum is concerned, his feelings and his actions are not wrong, even if the laws of the Citadel contradict what he knows.

He breathes in the cool morning air in one last long lingering lungful before they bring him inside, leading him towards the Queen.

“Sir Damien! My good friend and rival!”

Angelo’s voice booms from the other side of a wide hall and Damien winces at the number of heads it turns as Angelo hup hup hups his way over to himself and his escort. “Good morning, Sir Angelo,” Damien says as lightly as he can manage, keeping in step with the guards as he does. “I’m afraid I’ve been summoned and I cannot stay to speak with you.”

“What a terrible shame!” Sir Angelo cries, and then he pauses, eying Damien curiously for a moment before he speaks again. “Hold on a moment… your- Sir Damien, your…” he narrows his eyes, his bold voice dipping down uncertainly into a more manageable register when he notices Damien’s bow dangling improperly from the hands of one of the guards. He looks over the scene as he keeps pace with the uncomfortably hurrying squadron, his brow furrowing in thought. “Is… is there something wrong with your hands, my friend?”

“No, Sir Angelo, not as such,” Damien says with an amused sigh.

“Have the straps on your quiver broken, then?”

“No, Sir Angelo.”

“A rather strange and chivalrous favor done out of the goodness of these kind guards hearts-”

“Sir Damien has been accused of _treason_ and is being brought into custody!” one of the guards snaps, “and I will thank you to leave us to our _work_ , Knight.”

“Ah, that certainly explains all of the spears these fine fellows are pointing at y- _Saints_ what possible reason could there be to accuse my best friend and rival of something so hideous as _treason_!? Sir Damien-”

Angelo reaches a hand for Damien’s shoulder, and the procession finally halts. The spears waver, as if carefully considering how reasonable an idea it would be to point at the intimidatingly muscular form of Sir Angelo instead of the deceptively slight Sir Damien. They don’t aim Angelo’s way, in the end, but the consideration was obvious enough in the air that Angelo’s hand doesn’t make contact with his friend.

“It’s alright, Sir Angelo,” Damien says quietly. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not afraid.”

“Of course you’ve done nothing wrong!” Angelo cries, voice cracking in the middle. “And so, these fellows should clearly let you go.”

The guards tense, and Damien sighs again. “I have been summoned by the Queen, Sir Angelo. And my duty is to report as summoned, is it not?”

“Well- yes, of course, but-”

“Don’t worry for me, my friend.”

“I cannot allow them to _arrest_ you, Sir Damien, you-”

“If you draw that sword, Sir Angelo, you will regret it.” Sir Caroline steps towards them, boots clicking on the stone, her expression unreadable beyond the usual veneer of vague disappointment.

Damien feels a pang of hurt, but he stifles it. If this detainment is because Caroline spoke out then, yes, that would be a betrayal given her stated intention to stay out of their business, but Damien cannot be sure that is what happened. Caroline doesn’t look particularly smug about his situation; only dutiful, as always.

“I would not draw on the city guard, Captain Sir Caroline!” Angelo yelps, flinging his hands away from his own body in a gesture of innocence.

“Hm.” She turns to Damien and gives a small nod, then looks at the guard. “Why have you stopped, anyway?” Their heels collectively click together, and every one of them looks overwhelmed by her mild ire. “Go on, then.”

“Er- one thing, Sir Angelo?” Damien hesitates, eyes flicking to the guards for a moment. “You- would you talk to- would you tell-”

“Rilla, of course!” Angelo nods fervently, and Damien hopes that he knows that Damien is asking him to talk to both of his loves, actually. It’s a faint sort of hope, but… maybe he’ll figure it out.

“Tell- tell her not to worry, please?” Damien swallows, and makes himself smile. “And tell her to be safe.”

“Very good,” Sir Caroline says in an exquisitely bored tone. “Move along, then. Sir Angelo, I believe you have other duties to attend to, hm?” She raises an eyebrow, then gestures towards the barracks. “Off you get.”

Angelo pauses, giving one last confused, pained look towards Damien, and then he wanders off, for once silent, and Sir Caroline follows behind.

There is little to distract him then, between there and the Queen’s audience chamber.

Queen Mira watches him enter, still and cool as marble, and the moment the guards shove him forward onto his knees, she frowns and lifts a hand.

“Leave us.”

There is hesitation, while the guards struggle between the instinct to obey what the Queen instructs and the desire to stand between her and the highly skilled, treasonous knight with his hands still unbound. The obedience wins in the end, and they flee, and only when the enormous stone door is closed again do Queen Mira’s shoulders sink, her stiff stance cascading into one of exhaustion.

Damien remains kneeling, unsure what his Queen intends.

“Sir Damien,” she says, voice clear and cool and slow. “I have trusted you implicitly since you achieved your Knighthood. You have a moral core that I wish more of your order shared, and a profound sense of compassion, and the most tenacious nature of anyone in the Second Citadel.” She inhales deeply, looking down at him with an expression so utterly blank it’s like being observed by the moon. He drops his eyes to the floor instinctively. “All of those factors combined… are why it is so difficult for me to believe that you have committed the treason of which I have been made aware.”

 _Tranquility_ , Damien’s heart murmurs, even as it chugs anxiously in his chest. _Tranquility, tranquility, oh Saint Damien your tranquility I beg you_ -

“Well, Sir Damien? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“I am waiting, my Queen.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For the accusation itself. I cannot defend against that of which I have not been made fully aware. The guards who brought me in were conspicuously tight-lipped on the subject, I must say.”

Damien raises his eyes again, and the Queen watches him for a long, still moment.

“Three witnesses claim to have seen you at the edge of the jungle, Sir Damien, holding a decidedly amicable conversation with a monster.” She pauses, scrutinizing Damien for a breath or two. Damien suspects that this is not the end of the accusation, and when he remains silent he is eventually proven correct. “They also claim that when this conversation was finished, you embraced the creature, and- kissed it. The monster. On the _mouth_ ,” she says pointedly.

Damien draws a mercifully steady breath and lifts his chin, meeting the eyes of his Queen.

“If this is a _mistake_ , Sir Damien, I command you to tell me so now. If this is a curse, or a compulsion or a thrall- if you are being manipulated or coerced or blackmailed, you must tell me. I can do nothing to protect you if you do not tell me what has caused you to commit this- this betrayal.”

It’s an out, and Damien knows it. She doesn’t want to believe that he would choose to betray the Citadel, so she is grasping at any possibility that would shift the guilt of the act to the monsters, and not Damien himself. He could lie, claim a curse, claim anything, really, and Queen Mira might grant mercy or clemency or- forgiveness.

But Damien does not desire forgiveness. He knows in his heart that his love for Arum is something _good_. As purely good as his love for Rilla, as good as their love together. He is long since past that guilt, now, and the idea of being _forgiven_ for loving Arum- it is incomprehensible.

As incomprehensible as the idea of turning, and blaming Arum for tricking or manipulating him into love, as the Queen seems to expect him to do right now.

“I command you to speak, Sir Damien,” Mira says, and a crack of grim humor slips into her expression for a half-second. “For what may be the first time.”

A laugh wants to bubble out of Damien, but he is too scared that it will escalate to hysterics if he lets it. He is calm now, calm only through force of will and a surety of feeling, but he needs to maintain his grip. He breathes deep, and then breathes again slowly, and then he allows himself to speak his heart.

“The monster your witnesses saw is called Lord Arum,” Damien says, softly. “He who rules the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms. He is an architect. He is quick, and clever, and proud, and I have been in love with him since the battle at Fort Terminus, at least.”

Queen Mira’s expression shatters into utter shock, which is just about what Damien expects it to do.

“He poses no threat to the Citadel,” Damien continues. “His most earnest desire is to be left alone by humanity and monsterkind alike, with the exception of- of myself.” He barely avoids blurting Rilla’s involvement. Barely. “He loves me as well.”

“It does _not_ love you,” the Queen says, voice scathing, and Damien can’t help the bemused, disbelieving smile that curves his lips. It feels strange, to feel disappointed in his typically wise, venerable Queen, but that claim is too ridiculous for Damien to bear with a straight face. She glares at his expression, eyes going even colder. “The monster has tricked you somehow, Sir Damien.”

“He has done no such thing, my Queen.” Memory, steadying him; Arum draped over his back, leaching heat and murmuring soft complaints into his ear. Arum, watching him practice with his bow as his arm recovered, equal measures of worry and pride in his violet eyes. Arum, carrying Rilla more than was strictly necessary as her own injury healed, doting and pretending not to. Arum, throwing his weapon into the mud, looking down at him with vulnerability and hope and desire. Damien knows. Damien knows this, with utter certainty. “He loves me.”

“You are _lost_ , Sir Damien,” she says, a new hopelessness in her voice. “It is using you to try to get to the Citadel. It is performing another trick, another manipulation, just like the last one-”

“Lord Arum helped us defeat the fear monster, actually,” Damien admits, gently. “Sir Caroline did not know, but that was how- how we learned the methods the creature used. Lord Arum told us, of his own free will and under no coercion. If he had not done so, we would have gone into the situation completely unaware of the kind of danger we were in. He did not want us to die.”

“That is impossible.” Mira slashes her hand through the air between them, as if she needs to accentuate her denial. As if it isn’t perfectly clear that she won’t believe him. “Do you have anyone who can corroborate that claim?”

Rilla can, of course, since she is the one Arum actually gave the information to, but Damien cannot say that. “Arum could not speak with Sir Caroline or Sir Angelo,” Damien deflects, shaking his head. “They would sooner have killed him than let him explain.”

“As would be their _duty_ ,” Mira says, each word clipped short. “As should yours have been. To destroy a monster that threatened our Citadel and its citizens.”

“Lord Arum is not a threat,” Damien repeats. “He may once have been, but-”

“You really think a _monster_ would change for you, Sir Damien? Are you truly so naive as that?”

“Not for me alone,” he says, and then quickly follows with, “and I do not think he has changed all that much altogether. He was always Arum, and only his priorities and perspective have changed. He is _not_ a threat, my Queen.”

“ _This_ is your defense,” Mira says, and she sounds disappointed. “It is no threat, so you should not be punished?”

Damien sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “It is perfectly clear that by the letter of the law, I have colluded with a monster and thereby have committed treason against the Second Citadel,” he says. “What I now understand to be true, my Queen, is that the letter of the law is wrong.”

“How dare you,” the Queen whispers. “The Second Citadel nearly came to ruin, nearly fell to fire and fear at the hands and claws and machinations of these beasts, and you try to claim that collusion is not treason?”

“All monsters are not evil,” Damien says, and the Queen inhales a gasp. “They are all so very _different_ , my Queen. Has that not always been the most difficult challenge in fighting them, in holding them back? Every one is a unique being, just as we humans are. They are more chaotic, yes, and less predictable, but- Arum is not the only monster that would choose peace with the humans if given the opportunity.”

“You have colluded with _other_ monsters now, Sir Damien? You admit this?”

“I have spoken to some peaceably, yes. Not many; Arum happens to be a very solitary creature,” he says, and he feels a soft smile curve his lips.

“Have you allowed every one of them to take you to bed as well?”

The Queen’s words are biting and bitter and crass, and not at all like her. Damien frowns, but brushes away the stab of hurt he feels at the question and lifts his chin defiantly. “There is no call for vulgarity, my Queen.”

Her jaw clenches, but she neither apologizes nor repeats the question. After a long moment, she speaks again. “You are determined not to repent, then,” she says, and Damien can hear her stifling a deep sadness. He pities her - and that is quite an odd feeling - but his will is like steel when he knows he is following the right path. “You will not defend yourself.”

“I _have_ defended myself, my Queen,” Damien says, feeling very, very tired all at once. “I have defended myself as honestly as I am able. I have spoken my heart, spoken the truth of it, and told you where that self-same heart and my guiding Saint have led me. My fate lies in your judgment now, in your understanding and clarity of vision. I know who I am, my Queen, and I must believe that you know who I am as well. I love my Citadel.” There are tears burning at the corners of his eyes, the fierceness of his conviction thunders in his heart, but he ignores them both and continues. “I love the people I defend. You must know that I believe what I say, because if I thought for a moment that Arum posed a threat, you know that I could not live with myself if anyone was hurt by my inaction towards him.”

“Yes,” Mira says slowly, and Damien feels her tone creep like dread up his spine. “I can see that you believe what you say.” Damien can feel his future solidifying as the Queen speaks, his very short and unfortunate future before she inevitably sentences him to hang. “That, Sir Damien, is precisely what frightens me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh please hang in there with me. More incoming as soon as it is finished to my satisfaction. If you comment I love you forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Angelo was given a task, and he takes that duty very, very seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is a bit less intense than the last. Part of that is thanks to Angelo the Puppy. Take a breath with me, yeah? Special thanks to literally every single person who commented because I only wrote this so fast thank to y'all's encouragement!!!

The continuous, terrified churning of Sir Angelo’s stomach eases for the first time in hours when he sees that there is smoke coming from the chimney of Rilla’s little hut. Rilla is _smart_ , Angelo knows. Possibly the smartest person _that_ he knows, and she will know what to do about this, will know what _he_ should do. Angelo very much needs someone smarter than he to tell him what to do right now, because-

Well. Yes. The reasons are obvious.

“Rilla?” He bangs his fist off the door frame, straining with the effort it takes not to hit the wood _too_ hard. The more upset he is, the harder it becomes to contain his strength, but the last thing he needs in this moment is to face Rilla’s wrath if he breaks any part of her home. Again.

There is a grumbling from inside, and Angelo thinks that he hears her voice tell him to _go away_ in a muffled groan. He bangs again, only fractionally harder.

“Friend Miss Rilla I must insist you come to the door,” Angelo says, strained. “I must speak with you immediately about a matter of dire-”

“Angelo?” her voice is slightly less muffled now, and he hears her feet creak across the wood before the door cracks open, revealing her face blinking and squinting down at him through the sunlight, framed in a loose, sleep-tangled mass of dark curls. “Damien isn’t here, Angelo,” she grumbles through a yawn. “He left to report in before the sun was even up. I’m trying to take a na-”

“Sir Damien has been _arrested_ , Rilla,” Angelo blurts, and Rilla flinches, stares at him for a moment, and then she steps backward and pulls the door open for him.

“I’m getting dressed,” she says, all hints of sleep gone from her voice as she marches back towards her bedroom. “Come in, close the door behind you, and tell me _everything_.”

“They said _treason_ , Rilla. I don’t know what happened, exactly, but they said it was treason and that they were taking him to the Queen.” He presses his hands together just to give them something to do, his armor squeaking around him as he fidgets in place. He can hear Rilla tossing things around through the thin wall of her room, and then she’s bustling back out, dressed and twining her hair over her shoulder in a quick, practiced braid.

“They didn’t say why?” Rilla asks around the hair pins in her mouth, hands and feet still moving.

“No, they- Rilla they said _treason_ , and I don’t know what to do. Damien wouldn’t let me _help_.”

“Wouldn’t- let you?”

“I was going to _insist_ that they let him go, of course,” he says, flinging his hands out and barely avoiding knocking a bowl full of some viscous orange liquid off of a table. “But he said he had been summoned and must not disappoint the Queen. I just don’t understand, Rilla, why-”

Rilla’s feet stop, and she swallows, her hand raising to press at the skin above her heart. “It’s simple, Angelo,” she says. “They figured it out somehow.”

“Rilla?”

“They know about Arum, Angelo,” she says in a strained voice.

“How can you be sure?”

“Has Damien done _anything_ , literally _ever_ , that could be considered treason besides what he and I have with Arum?” she asks. “Anything at all? A word, a mistake, a thought? He’s loyal to a _fault_ , Sir Angelo. Arum is the only reason they could possibly have to punish him. It’s the _only_ explanation.”

Angelo considers that, and decides that as usual she is correct. “Oh dear. Whatever are we going to do, Rilla?” he asks, voice wavering and light with horror.

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything,” she says, and then she’s in motion again, striding around the room and putting things in order, extinguishing the fire and stuffing objects into the pockets of her skirt. “ _I_ am going to march down into that Citadel and figure out exactly how to keep Damien from getting himself killed.”

“But-” Angelo winces, wringing his hands again. “Damien said- he said for you not to worry about him.”

“Oh, is that so?” Rilla aims a glare at him and he quails under it. She can be far more frightening than the monster she and Damien love with very little strain, Angelo has learned. “Well, I’m not _worried_ , Angelo. I’m furious. And I’m going to get him out of this if I have to knock the walls of that stupid Citadel down myself.”

She’s packing up her medical bag as if she’s going to the scene of an injury, and Angelo isn’t really sure why. Actually, Rilla doesn’t even seem to be paying attention to what she’s doing, her hands moving automatically, placing instruments and tinctures in their proper places and brushing her fingers over them, methodical and certain, before she lifts the bag and slings it around her shoulder to hang at her hip. She’s turning for the door when he speaks again.

“He said- he wanted you to be safe, Rilla. He told me to tell you not to worry, but also to be safe, and I don’t think-”

Rilla’s face freezes, and then her mouth falls open in shock as she turns back to look at him. “Oh, oh no, the _complete_ idiot. Oh Saints above, he’s going to tell the _truth_.”

“The- truth?” Angelo blinks. “Is that a bad thing?”

She snorts, though her lips are tight with fear. “The _truth_ is that Damien and I are in love with a monster, Angelo. Do you really think it’s going to go well if Damien admits that to the fricking Queen?!”

Angelo winces, and Rilla winces in turn. She sighs, and takes a moment to compose herself.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, okay, I can still figure this out.” She narrows her eyes, then glances to Angelo. “I’m still going to the Citadel. I have to know what’s happening with him. Even if Damien’s done something completely stupid, the Queen will have to consider the issue for a full day before she passes official judgment, no matter how guilty she thinks he is. Custom and all that,” she sneers. “I _have_ to go, but-”

“But?”

She steps towards Angelo and places a careful hand on his shoulder. “Angelo. You have to tell Arum what’s going on. I can’t wait another second here or I’m going to go out of my mind, but Arum needs to know what’s happened, too.”

“I- of course, Rilla, but- how do I-”

She drops her hand and turns, striding over to a wide planter in the corner of the hut, full of dark soil and luminous plants that Angelo hadn’t noticed before but is quite sure is a new fixture in the home.

“Keep,” Rilla says, and a low singing fills the space. “Open a portal to the greenhouse, please?”

The planter seems to spring to life with that airy song, the dirt at the edges curling up into vines that form a distinct archway that reaches all the way to the ceiling before the space between is filled with magic, a chasm that leads somewhere green and chirping and warm.

Angelo takes two full steps backward. “Ah… Rilla?”

“Through there is the place where Arum lives,” she explains quickly, pulling her shoes on. “The castle, the plant- the Keep is alive. When you go through just tell it that I sent you, and tell it you need to talk to Arum. It’ll lead you to him and you can explain.” She smiles tightly. “I’m counting on you, okay?”

“I will not let you down,” Angelo says automatically, though his brow is furrowed with worry.

“I know you won’t,” she says, her smile tilting more genuine. “Just- please promise me you won’t let him do anything stupid, okay?” Angelo nods quickly. “I have to go. I’m sorry, Angelo, but- thank you for coming to tell me. I’m glad you’re on our side,” she says, her hands in tight, anxious fists at her side, and before he can respond she’s outside, the door banging shut behind her, and he can hear her stride struggling not to run towards the Citadel.

Then, Angelo turns back towards the portal, and is certainly not afraid of it. Afraid of a little magic! Certainly not.

He thinks about that for a moment.

Actually, he _is_ rather afraid of the portal, he decides. But he can’t possibly let Rilla and Damien down, so he musters his courage and _charges_ , and then nearly gets a mouthful of some frilly, flowery plant once he’s through. He careens sideways so as not to collide with any more flora and skids to a halt, looking around himself in wonder at the strange space he now occupies.

It is impressive, and vast, and mostly green, and Angelo thinks he would probably appreciate it all the more if he knew anything at all about plant life. No wonder Rilla is so charmed by this monster! Angelo smiles at the thought. His interests seem to intersect nicely with those of the herbalist.

He notices, belatedly, that the portal through which he entered has stopped working, the vines shrinking and receding into the floor of this place, and Angelo very bravely tries not to let the lack of an exit make him nervous.

“Er- excuse me please,” Angelo calls out, and a number of the dull bug and bird noises he hadn’t quite noticed before quail and quiet at the boom of his voice. “Friend Castle-Plant-Keep?”

After a pause, there’s that singing again as when Rilla summoned the portal, clear and questioning and very, very odd.

“Miss Rilla has sent me,” he says, wondering precisely where this building keeps its ears, and whether he should try saying things a bit louder. “Sir Damien has been- imperiled, and I am to inform the liz- er- I mean, I am to inform Lord Arum. If you could take me to him. Please?”

There is another pause, filled with strange animal calls and chimes. Then there is the singing, and suddenly there are vines again, this time twining around his legs and arms and lifting Angelo into the air, pulling him- somewhere. The automatic instinct is to draw his sword, but- well, this is the Castle-Plant-Keep, yes? He does not want to hurt something that Rilla cares about, and it doesn’t seem to be _squeezing_ him or otherwise trying to _hurt_ him, it is just- lifting him and moving him out of the large green space and into smaller corridors, all wood and soft blue glow.

“Pardon me, I don’t know if you realize, but I am quite capable of walking to where the- Lord Arum is on my own feet,” he says, voice mildly strained due to the current way the vines are holding him, horizontal and verging on upside-down. “Would you be so kind as to set me down?”

The building sings around him, but the vines decline his suggestion. He still doesn’t reach for his sword, partially because he has become aware of exactly how strong these vines feel around him. He’s not actually sure that he _could_ pull his limbs from that willowy grip, and-

Hm. The pressure is actually oddly comfortable. Much more gentle and supportive than the Budkin woman, he decides.

They exit to a balcony space and Angelo is suddenly back on his feet, wobbling and slightly dizzy, and the lizard Lord himself is staring open-mouthed at Angelo over the top of a scroll as he lounges on a large leaf that seems to be serving as a loveseat.

“Ah,” Angelo says, watching the vines recede again. “I see! I asked to be taken to him, and here he is! How helpful, friend Castle-Plant-Keep. And hello, friend Lord Arum,” Angelo says, his words going on automatic.

“ _What_ ,” Arum says, blank. He sets aside the scroll and stands in a flurry of motion too fast to follow. “Knight? What are you _doing_ here?”

“I have-”

“Keep, why have you not _ejected_ this-” he blinks, glances Angelo over a little more closely. “You- you are Sir- Angelo, was it? The one Damien is close with, is that right?”

“Best friend and rival!” Angelo can’t stop himself from chiming, even as the mention of Damien sets his stomach sour again.

“ _How_ did you get in here?” Arum growls, but the heat seems to have gone out of the words now, and he seems only confused.

“Rilla, she opened that quite strange door-”

“Amaryllis is back?” He glances over Angelo’s shoulder, as if somehow Rilla could be crouched down quite low to hide behind the knight.

“No, friend. She sent me to-” he swallows uncomfortably. “Um. Pass along news. Quite unfortunate news.”

Arum raises an eyebrow, folds three of his arms across his chest, and gestures with the fourth for Angelo to continue.

“Er-” he coughs. “Sir Damien- that is, that is to say- I happened to meet him in the Citadel this morning and- well, it just so happens-”

“Will you spit it out already?” Arum says, tail flicking behind him emphatically. “Ridiculous, the air you lot waste on meaningless blather.”

“Damien has been arrested,” Angelo says, liking the words in his mouth less and less each time he needs to say them. “For treason, and Rilla believes it is because of- well-”

“Me.” Arum has gone so very, very still that Angelo has the mad thought that he has been turned to stone. He doesn’t even breathe, for a long moment. “Obviously. Me.”

“Ah. That- that is what she thinks as well, yes.”

“Arrested,” Arum echoes, voice sliding into a snide growl. “He was only- only just here last night.” He pauses, inhales sharply, then eyes Angelo over. “Why did Amaryllis send _you_ to me? Why is she not telling me this herself?”

“She was eager to go to the Citadel to try to- to deal with the situation herself.”

Angelo has difficulty reading expressions at the best of times, but something in Arum’s sharp features goes overtly flat and frightened for a moment. “Of _course_ she did. Did she not even pause for a _moment_ to consider- if they suspect Damien of treason, would they not suspect her as well?”

Angelo’s stomach churns and churns and he clenches his hands as tightly as he can. “Saints above, you don’t think they will arrest her as well?”

“This. Cannot. _Happen_ , _takatakataka_ ,” Arum snarls, apparently not quite hearing Angelo’s question. His entire body is twitching intermittently in his distress, his tail lashing dangerously. Mind, Angelo has not spent all that much time with the lizard since they met, but this is not how Lord Arum typically composes himself. Angelo is worried that the creature is about to come apart at the seams, and he only just keeps himself from instinctively wrapping his arms around him in a steadying hug, and only because he suspects that he will find himself on the receiving end of those flexing claws if he does. “I won’t _let_ it happen. I’ve infiltrated that vile Citadel once before, I can do it _again_ , I can- I can find my way into their dungeon, find _him_ and get him out-”

“While that _is_ impressive, friend lizard, are you quite sure that Sir Damien will leave with you?”

Arum almost looks _wounded_ for a moment, and then he rounds on Angelo with a guttural noise that is nearly a roar. “Of course he will! Do you think he _desires_ to let your foolish human rules kill him? Do you think he desires be hanged, or beheaded, or burned alive? I can’t stand- I cannot stand aside and _wait_ for-”

“I merely meant that our friend allowed himself to be brought into custody,” Angelo says, a little queasy at the trio of horrible mental images the lizard has presented him with. “When I saw them bring him in I tried to have him released immediately, but he stopped me, and would not permit me to interfere when I saw they would not let him free. He means to face judgment. He has done no wrong, he says.”

“Of course he hasn’t, of _course_ he’s done nothing wrong, he would sooner toss himself from this balcony than intentionally do harm to _anyone_ , the naive little- but that doesn’t _matter_ , because they won’t _care_.” Arum’s tail collides with the leafy seat he had been reclining in and it snaps, but he doesn’t seem to notice, teeth bared and eyes wild. “All your petty laws and taboos and the bindings with which you try to shackle the infinitude of the universe, and all it does is strangle the life out of everything _good_ , just as it will strangle the life from him, just as- just as- they will _kill_ him, knight, do you understand that?”

Angelo worries that his own eyes have gone a little wild by now, because the lizard Lord is starting to genuinely frighten him. Not with fear for his own person - Lord Arum is a friend, and Angelo has nothing to fear from friends - but with fear that Arum is going through something close to one of the paroxysms of panic that Damien himself is prone to suffer. Angelo nods (though he can’t make himself think of Damien dying, he simply cannot), because Arum seems to be waiting for an answer before his tirade continues.

“They will kill him,” he says again, more of that clicking, guttural rasp in his voice. “Because of _me_.” He pauses, all four of his arms wrapping around his own chest in a grip that looks like it _hurts_. “Damien will die because of me, because he- he will die and it will be my _fault_.”

“But Rilla is-”

“Marching to her own doom as well,” he says with a grim smile. “Amaryllis, clever Amaryllis will try to reason her way out of this, but our bond is _magic_ , not science, and they will not understand it. They _never_ will.”

“But I-” Angelo pauses, taps his fingertips together awkwardly. “That is, I understand. And- friends Marc and Talfryn understand, so perhaps-”

“Amaryllis’ brothers _tolerate_ me because they adore her,” Arum says dismissively. “As they should. And you- you don’t _understand_.”

“I do understand your bond,” Angelo says, pretending not to feel hurt. “I will admit that there are many things in the world that I do not understand, Lord Arum, but love is not one of them. I was raised in a home that had love in spades, love to spare, and I can recognize it by sight.”

Arum winces as if Angelo has said something horrible, but he sighs and nods in concession. “Fine. Fine, if you say so. But just because a few humans understand doesn’t mean that your little _ruler_ is going to let Damien live.” He turns away and starts stalking, pacing in a quick circle, thoughts visibly churning in his head. “And perhaps I could get him out of the Citadel if he would let me, but then- they would hunt for him, of course. Pursuit that would eventually lead them- here. Unless-”

He turns, looks at Angelo oddly for a moment, and then the frill at his neck raises suddenly, framing his head like a spiky halo.

“What?” Angelo says, fidgeting uncomfortably under that gaze. “What is it?”

“I have a plan, or part of one,” Arum says in a frantic growl. “If you will- help, that is. I think I can- I can make sure that Damien is released.”

Angelo’s spirits lift with the joy of helping, before they dip back down in worry. “I don’t suppose it is a stupid plan?” he asks, entirely earnest. “Because Rilla made me promise specifically not to let you do anything stupid.”

“Of _course_ it isn’t,” he snarls.

“Oh, good!” Angelo says, instantly convinced. “Then of course I shall help. What are we going to do?”

“I will explain on the way,” Arum says, already turning to lead Angelo back inside the Keep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Damien is alone, Rilla has an awkward conversation, and Arum makes his presence known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed Lizard Kissin' Tuesday this week, but I TRIED. Alas, still no actual lizard kisses. Specific content warning in this part for a canon-typical monster construct.

The cell in which Sir Damien is sealed is clean, with a simple straw bed and a high, small window to let in the light.

Damien steps towards the bed, but now that he is alone, his legs have begun to shake so badly that he wobbles, and then he goes down to his knees, the cool stone bruising his flesh. The tears he had fought off while facing the Queen rush back, choking him, and he reaches forward and pulls himself to the bed until he can rest his forehead on the rough blanket while the worst of it passes over him.

“Oh Saint Damien,” he gasps, “it has all gone so _wrong_. How could I have been so careless, so foolish-”

Damien feels a coolness like a pool of ink spilling through him. He hears no voice, but he has memory. _Be calm_.

_Be calm_.

Damien inhales, shaky but careful and slow, and when the breath hisses back out of him, it is steady. So is he.

“My carelessness has endangered those I love, my Saint,” he murmurs, “and for that I beg your forgiveness. I beg for your steadying hand on the tiller of my life, but even if it is _my_ fate to fall for this folly… I beg you, Saint Damien, please protect them. Please, protect my Rilla. My Amaryllis, herbalist of healing hands, with brilliance beyond compare and patience eternal… she should not suffer for my sake. She should not suffer at all, but certainly not for me. Not for my mistakes.”

Damien pauses, feeling the rhythm of his inhale, exhale, inhale as the waves on a shore, as the breath of the sea itself.

“I do not know… I do not know if you will heed a prayer for the sake of a monster, Saint Damien. You have done so once before, but I know not if your answer and your aid were given for his sake, or for my own. But you already know my heart, my Saint, better than I myself do at times, and you would know this prayer was within me even if I did not speak it. If you will, Saint Damien, I beg you to protect Lord Arum. I beg you to grant him some measure of your tranquility, some measure of your grace. I fear that Rilla will be found out as I have, but Arum- I fear he will act recklessly when he learns what has happened to me.”

Damien hears, distantly, the noises of the marketplace down below. He is too high for anything distinct to reach him, but the gentle cacophony of his home- with his eyes closed, he could almost pretend to be somewhere else. Resting in the barracks, perhaps.

He thinks of the people of this city. He thinks of their safety, their happiness. He thinks of what threatens them.

He thinks, at length, on the concept of Exile.

“Is this… oh, but that is a mad thought, isn’t it?” He pauses. “Oh, my Saint… is this newest test a part of your will as well? Was it your will, for my falsehoods by omission to out this way? Because… I have considered, on occasion, that Rilla and I must not be the only ones to have seen something… _more_ , in a monster. To look deeper than the surface, to look in their eyes and see that _spark_. To see the soul… to see…”

A bell rings down below, and a laugh carries up to him like the fluttering of dove wings.

“If there are others like us, Saint Damien, they must be suffering, mustn’t they? Suffering, as I suffered, in trying to understand how the things they had been taught since lullabies in the cradle could all be… wrong. If they could only know- if they could know that they are not alone-”

He remembers the story Rilla told him, the ghosts of the monster and the man deep beneath the edge of the world, echoing their final moments of love and fear into eternity. Fossilized love, proof that they are not the first. His arms ache with the desire to hold his loves, to be assured of their safety, and he blinks tears back again.

“We must not be alone, in our love and understanding,” he says, more certain. He looks up, drinking in the honeyed light drifting in the small window, the soft clamor from the square below. “If… if I am to die… I will at least speak my heart. Yes, I believe that is the right thing. I will speak my heart, speak the truth, and give my words to those who need them. They must know they are not alone.”

 

* * *

 

“You aren’t just going to leave the poor pretty thing to _rot_ , are you sweets?”

“Shut up, you. Go home, I’m trying to work.”

“You know they’re going to kill him, don’t you?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of my business. Nor yours. Go _home_.”

“You don’t feel even a little bitty, teeny tiny bit bad for them?”

“It doesn’t matter what I _feel_. My duty is clear, regardless of the trouble those idiots have gotten themselves in.”

“If you say so, my big strong brave knight. But I just want to make sure that you’re sure.”

A pause, the soft noise of a kiss on a cheek.

“Just... be careful today. For me?”

“… Fine. But you had better do the same.”

“It’s a deal, sweets.”

 

* * *

 

Rilla follows Damien’s metaphorical footsteps into the Citadel with her jaw clenched and her head held high, but the fight she is expecting does not arrive. No spears halt her, no guards come running to shout her down.

There are whispers, though. As she lets her steady stride carry her towards the center of the city, she certainly notices that. Whispers, and stares, crawling up her spine. It reminds her of the first time she reentered the Citadel after her exile was lifted; a gossipy, syrupy hunger that clings to her heels.

It’s impossible to tell how much anyone knows, and it would be pointless to speculate- so she doesn’t. She keeps moving.

Rilla feels an odd mixture of relief and annoyance when she sees Sir Caroline outside the entrance to the building that houses the dungeon, leaning against the wall and unabashedly watching Rilla approach.

“I don’t suppose I even need to _ask_ what you are doing here, herbalist,” she says dryly.

“Where is he?” Rilla presses a hand to the bag at her hip to keep it from swinging wildly as she skids to a stop. “I need to talk to him.”

“Not just yet, I don’t think,” Caroline says. “You are to follow me.”

“And why would I do that?” Rilla asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Because the Queen thought that you might just happen to drop by, and she has requested your presence.”

Rilla only barely contains the urge to sneer. “Requested? So I can decline, then?”

Caroline takes Rilla’s arm as if she’s escorting her through a fair and drags her back in the other direction. “No you may not.”

“Hey, ouch!” Her feet catch on the stone ground as she’s pulled into motion, and she glares at Caroline but doesn’t bother to try to pull away. Caroline could probably lift her with one hand if need be; it’s not like Rilla is going to be able to fight her off. “Funny definition of the word ‘request,’ then, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care.”

“If the Queen wanted me, why wasn’t I stopped coming into the city like Damien was?”

“Because _you_ aren’t under arrest for treason,” Caroline barks, and then she says, in a voice almost too quiet to hear over their own footsteps, “not _yet_ , anyway, and not at all if you just stay quiet and _smart_ about it.”

Rilla frowns, but she feels one layer of the tension in her body ease. “You didn’t tell them,” she says, a statement of fact rather than a question.

“I said it was none of my business, and I _meant_ it,” she says, scoffing. “Now shut up and come along. I don’t know exactly what the Queen intends to say to you, but the quicker you get it over with the better, I imagine.”

Rilla opens her mouth to protest automatically, but that actually makes a fair bit of sense. The quicker the Queen is done with her the quicker she can talk to Damien, regardless of whether she’ll be doing it through the bars or while shoved into a cell next to him.

The guards they pass on the way seem tense, to Rilla’s eyes. Flighty, maybe. Well, the Citadel’s tied-for-best knight being arrested for treason would do that, Rilla reasons.

Surprisingly, Caroline doesn’t drag her to the Queen’s usual audience chamber. They ascend, instead, towards her personal chambers, and Rilla feels an oddly specific twinge of worry. The Queen has no way of knowing that this was the last place she spent time with Damien before he met Arum... that this _is_ the place where Damien met Arum, in fact. She couldn’t possibly know that, but the correlation still punts Rilla’s pulse up a bit higher than she’s happy with.

There are two guards on both sides of the door, which is excessive to the point that even Sir Caroline’s frown deepens at the sight. There’s no way, Rilla thinks, that they consider her that much of a threat.

The Queen herself looks somehow both impeccable and exhausted at the same time when they enter, something like an extra tension in the straightness of her spine giving her away.

“Thank you, Sir Caroline,” Mira says primly. Caroline nods and slips back out without another word, which Rilla is fairly certain isn’t the proper protocol for leaving the Queen. Mira’s brow creases for a moment, but she doesn’t comment. Instead she turns, and stares at Rilla for a long, silent moment before she gestures to the balcony. “Would you join me?” she asks. “I think I could do with a touch of fresh air.”

“Sure,” Rilla says with a shrug. She’s wary, but too curious to do anything but play along. “Why not?”

The Queen’s smile flickers on for half a heartbeat, and then it’s gone again, and she drifts outside with Rilla following behind.

It’s hot out there, of course, but they are on the lee side of the tower, and high enough that uneven, stuttered gusts keep buffeting the worst of the heat away. Mira leans on the railing and looks down over the city, and Rilla is just about as uncomfortable as she has ever been in her life. She opens her mouth to start asking about Damien, but the Queen speaks a moment before her.

“I hope you understand that I do not in any way _enjoy_ ruling on cases of treason,” she murmurs, still looking at the city instead of Rilla, her scarf rippling softly around her tired face.

Rilla clenches her jaw. “I think you’d have to be pretty damn cruel to enjoy something like that, so. Yeah, obviously.”

“I endeavor not to be cruel,” Mira says, even more quietly. “However, with so many lives on the line… cruelty to one can on occasion be the only measure of protection for others.”

“Are you going to get to the point eventually?” Rilla snaps.

“Of course,” Mira sighs. “This must be difficult for you, Amaryllis. Discovering that Sir Damien has betrayed his oaths, and betrayed our Citadel.” She pauses. “And that he has betrayed you, as well.”

Rilla feels herself go rigid, and she can see Mira glancing at her sidelong. “What do you expect me to say to that?” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “Damien- Damien wouldn’t-”

“He admitted it.” Queen Mira drums her fingers thoughtfully off the stone railing. “Insisted that he loves this monster. Insisted that the thing loves him.”

Rilla digs her nails hard into her own biceps to keep from flinching at Arum being called a _thing_.

“That was the main issue, of course, so I didn’t stop during our… _interview_ to question the very obvious in retrospect.”

“The… the obvious?”

“Sir Damien said very much, this morning, when we spoke. We discussed the creature, we mentioned Fort Terminus and the fear monster, we even spoke on the nature of the monsters themselves. One subject, however, was lacking in the discussion, and I did not realize it until he had been taken to his cell.”

Rilla has a suspicion. She does not give it a voice. She stands on the Queen’s balcony and she tries to keep her expression from becoming a glare.

Mira glances towards her again, tilting her head. “Sir Damien neglected to mention you at all, Amaryllis.”

“H… huh.” That is all that Rilla trusts herself to say.

“I find that curious. Do you not?” She pauses, long enough that it becomes clear that Rilla isn’t going to comment further. “I have never heard him discuss love without your name coming up in approximately every other sentence. I have barely heard him discuss _anything_ without your name hovering in the wings. And yet, his morning was spent in defense of his love, and this- creature seems to have superseded you entirely. Why would that be?”

Rilla is fighting the mad urge to bolt from the balcony. “Am I being interrogated now?” she says instead, hoping that she doesn’t sound too breathless, too panicked. She isn’t even sure what she _should_ do. Caroline told her to stay smart and stay quiet, and oh does that grate against her, mostly because that had been Rilla’s plan in the first place and now if she does it’ll be too much like doing as she’s _told_. The alternative is to throw herself to the wolves, though, and if Damien has put himself in _more_ trouble to keep Rilla out of it-

“I merely want to know the full scope of this… whatever, precisely, this is.” The expression on Mira’s face is approaching a grimace. “If this enchantment upon Damien has caused him to _forget_ you in exchange for this monster, somehow- I thought, perhaps, you may have some insight.”

So. That’s what the Queen thinks Arum has done. The idea is so repulsive that Rilla isn’t sure she’s kept the disgust from showing in her expression, and she lifts a hand to hide her mouth just in case. “Damien still loves me,” she says, because a truth is much easier to say than a lie. “He loves me.”

“He says,” the Queen murmurs pointedly, “that he loves this monster.”

“He loves me,” Rilla says again, and it’s an addendum, not a denial. “Are you going to have him executed?”

Mira doesn’t flinch. “You understand that he has admitted, outright, to treason.”

_Idiot_ , Rilla thinks, with a fierce sort of love. “He- no, you know what? I don’t need to talk to you. I want to talk to _him_. If you’re going to kill him already it doesn’t matter _what_ I say, so if you don’t mind terribly I would like to spend the last few hours Damien has with _him_ , not with _you_.”

And, if Rilla can get in decent distance of the bars, she has at least three ways in her bag to get him out. The difficult part will be convincing him to leave.

“Well,” Mira says, her eyes cooler than they had been. “I suppose I have no reason to keep you, do I? I have no evidence that you are involved with Sir Damien’s treason, and so I have no call to detain you. I cannot allow you to speak with the traitor unsupervised, but-”

A creature lands on the Queen’s balcony with a _whump_ a few feet to their left, leathery wings slapping against the stone railing as it clumsily keeps itself from falling. It looks like a _mess_ , a hodgepodge of bits from different animals including the head of a parrot, the body of an enormous frog, and bat wings, large as well but too small to make sense supporting its weight.

Rilla recognizes Arum’s handiwork, quicker and shoddier than usual, an old prototype revised and reconstituted, and her heart drops like a stone down a well. The creature’s head wobbles on its neck, wavering until its eyes focus on Mira. Then, the beak creaks open, and a voice falls out.

Arum’s voice.

“Hello, Queen Mira of the Second Citadel.”

Rilla’s pulse pounds, and she _knows_ that her face is giving her away, though thankfully Mira is too busy looking at Arum’s monster-parrot.

“I am Lord Arum, though I suspect you already know that much, at least. It is in your best interest, human, to let my construct deliver this message to its conclusion. You have taken and threatened what is mine, and I will not let that stand. At sunset, today, you will clear the western gate of your Citadel of meddling civilians, and you shall release ho-” a pause, a crackling noise while the creature readjusts its limbs on the railing. “You shall release Sir Damien and the herbalist Amaryllis, _unharmed_. You will let them free, and you _will not_ pursue them.”

Rilla doesn’t bother to hide the wince, this time, and Mira graces her with a scathingly disappointed look. So much for playing things smart. _Thank you for_ that _, Arum_.

“If you do not deliver what is mine, if either of them are injured, if I even so much as _smell_ a hint of deception- well, then I cannot be held responsible for what happens to your Citadel’s second greatest champion.”

The creature pauses, and Rilla closes her eyes in utter, utter despair. Angelo. Damn, damn, a thousand times _damn_ that knight-child. If this was his idea of a _not_ stupid plan-

“Yes. I’m sure you understand, now. Would you care to prove your position, little knight?”

Angelo’s voice, too brief and not quite scared enough, though Mira seems convinced judging by the way her face pales. “What- ah- I am captured, my Queen!”

Another crackling. Rilla imagines Arum yanking the echoing creature away from Angelo in irritation. “That is quite enough of that. So. The stakes are clear, are they not? Even _humans_ must understand something as simple as a hostage exchange. Amaryllis and Sir Damien will be granted freedom at sunset, or Sir Angelo dies. Do not disappoint me.”

The creature’s beak closes, and then it squawks in a much more animal way before its eyes roll back and it collapses entirely. Rilla frowns, but Arum was probably in too much of a hurry creating this thing to bother keeping it alive after its purpose was served.

Rilla can hear the guards bursting in through the door back inside; they must have heard the construct's death rattle. A little late to the party, Rilla thinks wryly. Wouldn't have done much good if that construct was any actual threat.

“Not a threat,” Mira mutters, as if reading Rilla's mind. She stares at the body of the messenger for one deep, measured breath before her eyes raise towards Rilla. “Not a threat _indeed_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be either one or two more chapters to this, depending on if the next part goes longer than I expect. For the next chapter, the archive warnings are going to change a bit, because uh, some unexpected stuff happened when I was planning the resolution for this. [spoilers ahead?] If some major injury is an issue for you, I'm sorry for not warning at the beginning but I genuinely didn't know it was going to happen when I started writing/posting. In the end notes for the next chapter I'll put instructions for skipping the parts that get a little rough, that way you can still read even if blood/etc is an issue for you. Sorry again, and thanks for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunset is approaching fast, and neither the herbalist, the knight, or the monster are prepared for what comes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, please take note that the archive warnings have changed with this chapter. I mentioned this at the end of the last one, but again I'd like to say I'm sorry, I didn't know that this was the direction things would go when I started posting this. If blood/injury is an issue for you, click to go to the end notes, and I'll tell you when to skip ahead, okay? Take care of yourselves.

“Are you…” Sir Angelo trails off awkwardly as they wait in the jungle near the western gate. Lord Arum checks all four of his knives again, unsheathing and re-sheathing each of them in turn, testing the edges against his thumbs, apparently not hearing the knight until he tries a second time. “Are you quite sure about this plan, my friend?”

Arum’s head snaps up, the growl already growing in his throat, but the way Angelo is holding himself – shoulders tight and hunched, brow furrowed, utterly meek – it breaks through the dizzy fixation of Arum’s thoughts. His thoughts that his choice to make the exchange at this gate of the Citadel was only partly because the sunset at their back will make any attack more difficult for the humans, that his second duel with Damien had been within earshot of this grove, that the choice to make the trade here is merely an excuse for closeness to this place, this place where he had pinned his knight and tasted victory and learned- victory tasted less sweet than the knowledge that Sir Damien would continue to live.

Sir Angelo is having his own worries, though, and it is Arum’s fault he is here as well. He hisses a sigh, letting his hands slip from the hilts of the blades at last. “It will work,” he insists. “They value you, and they will take the trade.”

“But…”

“They will not endanger you,” Arum says, narrowing his eyes. “And even if they try something foolish, I will keep the situation from getting out of hand. I won’t-” he pauses, grimacing in discomfort. “Sir Damien… cares for you. I will not allow you to come to harm.”

“As much as I appreciate that, Lord Arum, it is not myself that I am concerned for.”

“I will not allow them to hurt Amaryllis or Damien either. I simply will _not_.”

“And- and yourself, Lord Arum?”

Arum blinks, then looks at Angelo in surprise. No part of his acquaintance with Sir Angelo has led him to believe that the human would be astute enough to worry about the _correct_ thing. “What _about_ me?”

“What about your own safety?” he asks. “You will need to escort me to the gate itself for the ruse to be successful, will you not? How will you escape once Rilla and Sir Damien are safely away?”

“… you have changed, some, since we met in my swamp, haven’t you?”

“I try to change whenever that change is for the better,” Angelo says, ducking his head. “Though I am unsure what change you are referring to at the moment.”

Arum sighs again, smiling wryly. “I will do my best to keep myself safe,” he deflects, and it isn’t quite a lie, “but I am sturdier than you fragile little mammals. My concern lies with the three of you before myself.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Angelo says with a frown. “You must forgive me my nerves, friend Arum. I am not particularly skilled with- with deception. And we have so little to do between now and sunset; it is difficult to keep from worrying over what may go wrong.”

Arum smiles more honestly at that. “Consider yourself forgiven. I am not exactly-” he laughs, “ _tranquil_ about this situation myself.” He pauses and Angelo nods, the worry still clear on his face. “Would it help-” he pauses again, awkward. “Would it help if we… talked? To pass the time more quickly?”

“Oh,” Angelo says. “Perhaps? I… er… what should we speak of, my friend?”

Arum’s jaw snaps shut, his tail flicking, and he tries to think what, if any, subjects they may have mutual interest in. “Ah… I don’t…” he trails off, claws flexing. Then, a thought occurs, and Arum stills. “You… you have known Damien a long time, yes?”

“Oh, yes! He has been my best friend and rival for as long as we have been knights.”

“Would you-” his hands clench in fists. He forces the next words out, soft and hesitant. “Would you… tell me what he was like, when he was younger?”

“Ah, a story!” Angelo grins wide, his fears all but forgotten. “A story of two young, reckless knights, fumbling their way into a rivalry. I may not be the poet Sir Damien is, my friend, but that is a story I can certainly tell.”  


* * *

 

“So,” Mira says, tone flat once the guards have retreated again, carrying the construct’s corpse out with them, “would you care to revise any of your previous statements, now that I am aware that the monster is _invested_ in you as well, Amaryllis of Exile?”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Rilla says, folding her arms over her chest.

“Yes, I imagine not. You said very little of substance at all, in fact.” Mira tilts her head contemplatively. “But the monster claimed you, did it not? It demanded the return of what belongs to _it_ when referring to the both of you.”

Rilla presses her mouth firmly closed, glaring hard with her arms still crossed, never mind that her hands are trying to shake.

After a long moment, Mira sighs. “Very well. I had hoped that _you_ would be willing to tell me what Sir Damien would not. That you would tell me how this thing bespelled him, what machinations it must have worked to manage to sway one of my best knights to its side-”

“ _Stop_ calling him an ‘it’,” Rilla snarls, something of Arum himself in her tone. “He’s not an _it_ , he’s not a _thing_ , he has a _name_.”

Mira smiles without an ounce of mirth, her triumph grim. “So. Not only has Sir Damien turned, but the monster has drawn in the both of you. I should have suspected- nothing could tempt Sir Damien away from you, but if the temptation _included_ you-”

“ _Saints_ , you’re dense. He didn’t _bespell_ us,” Rilla says, putting as much mocking force into the word as she can, and Mira blinks in surprise. _Well, no sense in stopping now_ , Rilla thinks. “He didn't, as much as I bet you really, _really_ want to believe that he did. It’s a hell of a lot easier than the truth. Easier, and it lets you keep believing what you’ve always believed, and if the evidence doesn’t back up your point? Must just be lies and magic and treason, right?”

“I understand the soreness of this subject for you, Amaryllis-”

Rilla scoffs. “This isn’t _about_ me. It’s about Arum, and it’s about the willful ignorance this entire stupid Citadel has towards anything to do with magic that doesn’t fit into the neat little narrative we’re all caught up in. Monsters can be dangerous. _Fine_. _Magic_ can be dangerous. Absolutely! But just because something has the _potential_ to be dangerous, that doesn’t mean that it’s inherently evil!”

“Is this not the same beast that kidnapped you?”

Rilla rolls her eyes, and Mira isn’t sure if anyone has ever done that to her before. “We didn’t have the most auspicious first meeting. So what?”

“That-” Mira laughs incredulously. “That is a _staggering_ understatement.”

“Also _ancient history_ at this point,” Rilla says. “He’s made mistakes in the past, but so has everyone. I’ve hurt him too, and Damien, and they’ve hurt each other, but we’ve grown and changed and _forgiven_ each other. And we don’t owe _you_ any of that.” She stops to take a steadying breath. “Look, I _get_ how much of a shock this has to be. If I wasn’t too busy being terrified for Damien and _furious_ with Arum I could maybe even sympathize with you.”

“Sympathize with _me_ ,” Mira echoes, mildly affronted.

“Well, _yeah_. It makes sense, for you to hate monsters pretty unconditionally. I only got a bite-sized taste of what that big fear bug at the Terminus could do and-” Rilla winces, bites her lip. “And I still get the nightmares, sometimes. But it was _focused_ on you. That must have been- impossibly difficult.”

Mira laughs again, but it comes out sounding distinctly uncomfortable. “I do not see how that is in any way relevant.”

“I _get_ it,” Rilla insists. “I _get_ that seeing a monster as anything but your enemy is difficult, but you _have_ to look at the evidence that’s right in front of you, and not just what you’re afraid of.”

“Evidence.” Mira scoffs. “You have presented no evidence whatsoever, Amaryllis.”

“Fine.” Rilla sighs, shoulders slumping. “If you’re not going to listen- whatever. Might as well get to the crux of it, then. What are you going to do about Arum’s ultimatum?” Rilla could inform the Queen that there’s absolutely no way that Arum would hurt Angelo, but Mira won’t believe it anyway, and besides- if there’s even the slightest chance that whatever Arum’s planning could work, Rilla doesn’t want to jeopardize that.

“I have little choice in the matter,” Mira says quietly, looking aside. “Though I have my doubts that the exchange will occur as promised.”

“Are- you’re going to let us go?”

“Your monster is correct, on this matter. A prisoner exchange is a simple enough prospect.” She eyes Rilla, cold. “Of course, you understand that this means that you are now a prisoner.”

“Yeah,” Rilla says, sighing. “I figured as much.”  


* * *

 

Sir Caroline is the one who pulls Damien from the cell. It’s a bit of a shock, actually- Damien had been anticipating a much longer wait. It’s only approaching sunset, and Damien expects to be left alone to worry for the full day Mira requires for deliberation before his fate is decided. Caroline binds his hands in front of him with sturdy rope, silent and stone-faced, and Damien manages to keep himself from questioning her only until he is outside of the cell proper.

“This- you are quite a bit early, I think,” he says, failing entirely to hide the concern in his voice.

“Yes, well,” she says dully, not meeting his gaze. “Your lizard saw to that.”

“What?” Damien nearly trips over his own feet, but Caroline pulls him along relentlessly, not giving him space to falter or freeze. “What happened, is he-”

“I do not know the current state of your lizard, so do not ask. Though, apparently he has ‘captured’ your rival, and is offering him in exchange for your own freedom, and that of your herbalist.”

“ _What_?” Damien says again, even more incredulous. “Saints above, what could they possibly be thinking! I must face this alone, they mustn’t be endangered-”

“Well, it seems that decision has been taken from your hands, does it not?” She glares down at him. “Whining about it won’t do any good. Be grateful that you may still get through this with your head attached to your body and _shut up_.”

He shuts his mouth with an audible snap, suppressing the urge to moan in despair. Angelo- he had only asked Angelo to deliver a message, how could he have gotten so wrapped up in this? Entangled and thrust into harms way for Damien’s carelessness- if anything were to happen to him, if anything were to happen to _any_ of them-

“Stop that,” Caroline snaps. “If you start crying on my armor I’ll behead you myself.”

“You said- you said he asked for Rilla as well?”

“Yes.”

“She- is she here?”

“ _Yes_.”

“And- and-”

“Will you _please_ be quiet? The quicker we get to the western gate, the quicker you’ll see your precious herbalist.”

He does as told, dizzy with fear until the moment they reach the guard post near the gate, where Caroline hands him off to one of her guards and slips into the building for an agonizing few minutes. When she returns she’s dragging a scowling Rilla and Damien’s knees go weak, both at the mere sight of her and at the sight of the ropes binding her wrists, as he is bound.

“Rilla, my Amaryllis-”

“Damien!” Rilla starts forward but Caroline yanks her back, exasperated.

“ _None_ of that, thank you. If the both of you behave, perhaps we can get through this quickly and painlessly.”

“I’ve been so _worried_ , my Rilla-”

“Haven’t we all,” Caroline interrupts with sticky sarcasm. “It’s almost time. Be quiet, don’t pull against the ropes, and keep your damn heads.”

“It's here- it’s coming out of the trees!” a guard near the gate calls, panicked and angry, and Caroline sighs.

“Perfect.” She glances down at the two captives as they wear mirrored expressions of terror, and she tightens her grip on Rilla’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”  


* * *

 

Arum marches Angelo out from the tree line, all four arms wrapped around the little knight from behind, two of which hold dangerous blades gripped tight but careful against his skin. With the armor above his waist removed (stashed carefully in the trees nearby), he’s vulnerable nearly anywhere Arum can reach. Not that Arum intends to do anything in truth, but the show of it is important. He must _look_ vulnerable, or they may not stay their hands long enough for this to matter. He can see archers on the wall before he even takes a step, and they all draw the moment they see him. He and Angelo move forward a few more steps, and then Arum brings them to a stop, glaring in the general direction of the Citadel.

“Here I am, human Queen,” he calls, voice too clear to be a roar but too loud to be anything else “I hope you do not intend to disappoint me. You shall release Sir Damien and the herbalist Amaryllis immediately, or I shall kill this little human. I understand that he is the greatest knight you possess, now that you have so callously discarded his rival. Can you truly afford his loss as well?”

“Begads! He truly shall kill me! I beg that you do as the very strong Lor- er- _lizard_ says.”

Arum primly cups a clawed hand around Angelo’s mouth before his remarkably wooden attempts at deception give them away. Luckily, Angelo seems to take the hint and doesn’t try to say anything else through his scaly fingers.

“Yes. As he says. Bring them out immediately, and no harm will come to anyone.”

“An exchange of two hostages for one hardly seems equitable.”

The voice that calls down from the wall above is clarion clear, authoritative, dignified. Arum can’t quite pinpoint which human shape on the wall is the source, can’t see their faces at this distance, but he recognizes a leader when he hears one. He smiles, equal parts grim and smug. He had suspected as much. Suspected that the humans would take issue with his proposed exchange.

“I see. You humans are so very new to mathematics that you are still preoccupied by basic addition, yes?” There is a satisfying grumble of irritation from the wall, and Arum can just barely see the curve of Amaryllis’ frown at this distance as she and Damien are pushed out of the gate, each with an escort behind them. Arum recognizes one, the high-voiced knight with the accent, the one who blocked Sir Angelo’s blow in the swamp, but the other is just a guard who looks anxious even from this far away. “Very well then. I shall assuage the human preoccupation with _fairness_. You shall march your captives to the edge of these woods, out of range of your archers, and I shall march the little knight here all the way to the gate. Two for two. Amaryllis and Sir Damien, in exchange for Sir Angelo and myself.”

“Arum, no!” Amaryllis shouts, and the knight behind her clasps a hand over her mouth just as Arum has done with Angelo. Arum- Arum can’t help the pulse of fury he feels at seeing his brilliant herbalist forcibly silenced, but he can do nothing about it besides go through with the exchange.

The other guard doesn’t seem to have the same presence of mind.

“Don’t do this, Arum,” Damien calls, panic and anger clear in his voice. “They will kill you the very moment you release him! This won’t be an exchange, it will be a march to execution!”

“Perhaps. Regardless, you shall be free,” Arum says simply. “And if you are correct, then you shall be left with no shackle of monstrosity to bind you.”

“Er-” Angelo says, muffled from behind Arum’s palm. “I do not recall this portion of the plan, friend Arum-”

“I am improvising,” Arum lies in a mutter, though his next words are true. “I cannot allow them to release one and not the other. That is not a choice I could make.”

“Arum this is _madness_ , you- you cannot just march to your own murder, I won’t stand for it-”

“ _You_ are not in the position to be negotiating terms, Sir Damien,” the voice from on high calls down again. “Monster, I accept your amended exchange.”

The terror, the despair in Damien’s expression pulls at Arum like a riptide, he cannot stand it- but it is like the hand over Amaryllis’ mouth. The only course of action he can take is the one he is already on. They must be safe. He must make sure that they are safe, whatever the cost. “Very well,” Arum says. “And so, the trade shall proceed.”

Arum begins to march forward, and ahead of him, their escorts push Damien and Amaryllis to do the same.  


* * *

 

Damien can barely feel his legs as the guard behind him propels him to motion. He can’t understand what Arum is thinking, can’t understand how things have spiraled so horribly away, what he is going to _do_ when he reaches the trees-

If he runs back for Arum, he could get the both of them killed, and Rilla will be left alone entirely. If he stays with Rilla, if they run, Arum will certainly die and then- then what? Where would they even go? And if he tries to stop all of this, all three of them could die in the chaos. There are- _so_ many archers on the wall, so many strings drawn taut and dangerous, ready to whistle their deadly missiles down upon all of them-

They are close now, nearly to the point of passing each other and Damien’s heart is thudding in his chest like a drumbeat at a festival. He tries to meet Arum’s eye to express his fury at the risk he is taking, the ridiculousness of this plan-

A bowstring twangs with a muttered curse behind and off to Damien’s right, and between the moment when he hears it and the moment he realizes what it _means_ , Arum shoves Angelo down and to the side, one of his hands flicking out and snatching the offending arrow straight out of the air.

Damien’s breath leaves him in a relieved whoosh. Arum looks at the arrow with an expression of disdain, then snaps it in half and drops it to clatter in the road. He glances down toward Angelo, and Damien could almost laugh at the expression of embarrassment on Arum’s face as he reaches to help Angelo back up.

There is a whizzing sort of noise in the air. It is oddly familiar, and then-

The javelin blooms in Arum’s midsection, slightly off center and below his second pectorals, and Arum looks down at it with a vaguely puzzled expression. It is Sir Absolon’s javelin (Damien would recognize that weapon anywhere, it must have been thrown from all the way up on the wall, a nearly impossible throw-), and Arum lifts a hand to grip the shaft of it, his breath coming out in a little ‘ha’ noise that could have been a laugh if it didn’t rattle so horribly.

Damien hears Rilla shout as if from underwater, hears the chatter of the guards, hears more bowstrings tighten and prepare to finish- to finish _everything_ and-

And Sir Angelo rises, and steps in between the arrows and Lord Arum, his weaponless hands spread wide.

A breath of pause. Angelo shouts something. Damien thinks he may be calling for them to stop, but he cannot hear. The blood is rushing too fast through his head, his hands, his heart; he is straining against the guard behind him and he hadn’t even realized it because Arum is sinking to his knees, the knives slipping from his hands and down to the dirt. He and Angelo have traded positions like partnered dancers, and the javelin is edged with too much red, Arum’s clothing no longer matches his eyes where it is staining black like water on a moonless night.

Arum pulls his uncomprehending gaze from the javelin, lifts his head and looks curiously at Angelo, still standing in the path of the danger, and then his eyes slide past and meet Damien’s.

Violet as amethyst, pure and piercing for one last moment before they slip closed and Arum slumps sideways to the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you clicked forward from the start notes to find out when to skip, the offending scene isn't until near the end. When you see the line that says, "There is a whizzing sort of noise in the air," it's dangerous territory from there to the end of the chapter. Again, I'm horribly sorry. I'll put a similar warning to this for the next chapter as well, because it will still be relevant to the scene. 
> 
> Speaking of, the next chapter should be up very very soon, because I wrote a lot of it while trying to make this chapter happen. I know y'all are gonna want some resolution as soon as I can provide it and I'm right there with ya.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading along, and especially to everyone who commented, because they've all been so so so sweet and I've honestly never seen such an enthusiastic fandom before. It's almost overwhelming, but it's also a huge part of the reason this fic has happened so fast. You're incredible!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "transfiguration's gonna come for me at last / and I will burn hotter than the sun"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter. I'm sure you'll forgive me for that. This chapter will deal heavily with the consequences of the last chapter, so there will be mentions of blood throughout, and some medical talk.

The moment Arum’s body goes limp, Damien sweeps his leg back in a practiced, clean maneuver, and before the guard holding him even hits the ground Damien is already running. He is driven forward like an inevitability, his hands still bound in front of him, instinctively calling for Rilla as he moves and unable to connect the thought of _needing_ her to the knowledge that she is bound as well, with Sir Caroline holding her back. Before that thought has time to reconcile, Damien is on his knees beside Arum, helpless to do anything but flex his hands in the air near Sir Absolon’s hateful javelin, too afraid to try to touch it for fear of making anything worse.

“Oh Saint Damien above oh please, oh no, no oh no-”

At his wavering voice Arum’s eyes flutter, not quite blinking open, and Damien hears himself sob as he lifts his bound hands to cup Arum’s face. Arum leans into the touch, just enough for Damien to feel it, and as Damien oh so carefully maneuvers so that Arum’s head is gently, softly pillowed on his legs, he blinks again and coughs, and then his eyes open enough to focus on Damien’s face.

“Don’t move, love, don’t try to move.”

“Honeysuckle,” Arum says, and his voice is almost entirely hiss.

“Shhh, it’s-” Damien chokes on another sob. He swallows roughly, but he can’t make himself say _it_ _’s alright_. He cannot lie. Not now. “I’m here. I’m here, Arum-”

“Easy, little honeysuckle,” Arum rasps. He lifts his hands towards the poet, but he sees the blood on his palms and thinks better of it. He settles for stroking the backs of his knuckles down Damien’s cheek, smoothing away some of his tears. “Easy…”

“Are _you_ comforting _me_?” Damien asks in a ragged whisper. “Ridiculous lizard. Why did you- why did you-”

“I suspected it would end this way,” Arum breathes, an odd smile playing on his lips. “Seemed a small price to pay for your freedom. I am only sorry-” his eyes slip closed and he coughs, the noise sounding wet and vicious and _wrong_ , “sorry that you had to see it.”

Damien’s sorrow is eclipsed by fury at this new absurdity, but he is interrupted by a commotion back towards the Citadel, by the voice of the Queen.

“Move aside, Sir Angelo! We must finish this, _now_.”

“I am sorry, my Queen, but I cannot obey. I cannot allow them to loose their arrows into the back of an unarmed man. An unarmed man with his hands tied, no less. And Lord Arum _saved_ me, I cannot-”

“How many of my knights will be revealed as traitors before this day is done?” the Queen cries, furious and terrified in equal measure.

“Oops,” Sir Caroline says unconvincingly, and suddenly Rilla’s bonds are cut, dangling, falling to the dirt, and she is dashing away from her former captor and towards the knights and the monster. Caroline follows, but slowly, her posture stiff and her expression waxen.

Rilla drops to her knees beside them, and Damien can barely control his overwhelming relief at her presence.

“Rilla, oh Rilla my heart, my heart- what do we _do_?”

She grips Damien’s shoulder for one too-brief, steadying moment, and then her hands are on Arum. Careful, practical, moving the cloth of his cape aside and assessing the damage. The lizard rouses again at the new touch, and though his eyes stay closed, he murmurs Amaryllis’ name. She reaches one hand into her bag, and grabs one of Arum’s knives from the ground with the other, and when she aims it at Damien he doesn’t even have time to be confused before she has sliced through the bindings at his wrists. Then, she is pressing a clean rag into his hands and showing him where to hold it, around the edge of the wound.

“Gotta stop the bleeding, pressure- just put pressure there and- and- oh Saints,” her breath catches and she digs through the bag again as Damien holds the quickly-reddening cloth. “Damien… Damien I don’t-”

“Breathe,” he says through his own panic, echoing back the advice she’s given him more times than he could count. “Breathe, my love.”

She does, pressing her eyes closed on the exhale, and then she bites her lip and meets Damien’s eyes. “Damien, I don’t think I can fix this.”

Damien’s heart stutters, and when it resumes it thuds against his ribs like a rockslide, dragging him down. He looks at Arum, looks at the weapon, and he knows. He knew the moment it happened, really. But Rilla- Rilla saying it makes it _real_. “Oh Saints…”

“Too much blood- he’s lost too much and it’s not like anyone here could be a _donor_ it just wouldn’t- and the way the javelin hit, the angle, I think it probably punctured a lung and I- I can’t take it out without doing just- _so_ much more damage, but leaving it in will kill him too, and I can’t- Damien there’s nothing-”

“Rilla-” he reaches a hand out and she takes it, their fingers tangling together. “Rilla, breathe-”

“I can- I can lessen his pain,” she says in a raw voice, pulling small bottle from her bag with her free hand. “I can… I can do that, at least.”

“Stand aside, Sir Angelo,” Sir Caroline says as she approaches, her voice stiff and angry and her blade drawn. “It is over. Let me finish it cleanly.”

“I will not, Sir Caroline.” There are tears on Angelo’s face, and that only makes Caroline’s frown deepen. “It is- you are right that it is over. And so, they deserve to say their goodbyes in as much peace as we can give them.”

“Don’t be a _fool_ , Angelo. You know they will be punished for this, but you can still-”

“I do so wish we would stop having this same argument,” Sir Angelo says with a sad smile. “Though I am possessed of no sword, this time. Will you strike me to get to them, Sir Caroline?”

Caroline growls, then lifts a hand to press at her mouth roughly. She drags the hand up her face, through her hair, and then she jams her sword back into its sheath. “ _Damn_ you. Damn all of you.”

“Sir Caroline!” the Queen cries down, and Caroline turns back towards the Citadel with a scowl.

“Oh, he’s good as dead already! I am a _Knight_ , not a butcher.”

Damien can’t help but blanch at the words, but he keeps his steady grip on Rilla’s shoulder as she tips Arum’s head back and carefully pours a dose of her painkiller down his throat. He coughs, winces, and his eyes flick open in narrow violet slits.

“Amaryllis,” he hisses again, “what-”

“That should dull it at least a little, Arum, just- just try not to move, okay?”

Arum disobeys immediately, his tail curling around Rilla and pulling her closer. When she makes a noise of terrified protest – the javelin, she can’t touch it, can’t risk anything that could exacerbate the damage – he shushes her, nudging his forehead against her arm. “Let me bend to my nature,” he whispers, the ghost of a smile gleaming through the pain on his face. “I know this is my ending, but it is not often that a monster is fortunate enough to die in the arms of those he loves.”

“Oh you absolute idiot,” Rilla whispers, reaching to tangle her hands with Arum’s despite the blood. “Don’t you dare leave us yet, don’t you _dare_ give up-”

“Of course not,” he says in a low rasp. “Selfish, greedy monster, don’t you recall? I intend to-” he winces, pants roughly, then slits his eyes open again to look at each of them in turn. “I intend to take every remaining moment that I am allowed with you.”

“Saint Damien above oh please,” Damien says in one weak breath, “I can’t, I can’t-”

Rilla goes still beside him, and when Damien looks at her he sees an impossible, impossible spark of hope in her expression. She turns to him, meets his eyes, and Damien does not understand but he still feels his heart swoop like an unsteady kite.

“Damien,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “Damien, _pray_ for him. The Saints- _your_ Saint helped him once already, in that cell under the edge of the world. I may not understand it, I may not believe like you do, but right now? I don’t care. He’s going to bleed out, Damien, no matter what _I_ do, but- maybe-” she clenches her jaw, forcing her next words out through her teeth, “maybe _you_ can do something I can’t. Please, Damien. Just- please try, at least.”

Damien looks down at Arum, clutching Rilla’s hand and breathing unevenly, unsteadily, and Damien does not know if his words will be enough, this time. His own breath is coming too fast, too hard, grief and terror making every inch of him shake, making him lightheaded and weak-

And then Rilla’s arm settles on his shoulders like a blanket, like a clean fall of snow on a barren land.

“Saint Damien,” he says, voice rough, and then he shudders out a breath and tries again. “Oh, Saint Damien above, you of Tranquility, of calm, of peace…”

There is something strange about his voice, a reverberation he doesn’t understand, but he pushes the thought aside. He focuses on his words, on the rhythm of Arum’s heart while it still beats beneath his hands.

“Peace… O Saint Damien we beg you to preserve our peace, what small measure of it we have found within each other. I believe… I _know_ your Tranquility lives within me. I know that the rhythm of your waves lives within the complex dance of our union. So I cannot believe, Saint Damien, that you would guide us together with your careful, subtle hand… only for the third strand of our braid to be snipped and discarded so quickly, so abruptly, leaving us to unravel and fall, bereft. This weapon-”

His hand hovers, a breath from the javelin, and his fingertips feel numb. Electric.

“This weapon defies your will. Impatient and thoughtless and cruel… it rails against the order and serenity you cultivate in our world. It will rend our peace to pieces; this slim hope, this proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid, dashed again to rapids and rage… we beg you, Saint Damien, help us make this right.”

“Please,” Rilla breathes, leaning to press her lips to Arum’s brow. “ _Please_ …”

“O Saint Damien, guide my hands. Lend me your Tranquility. Lend me your precision, and clarity, and grace. If it be your will, O Saint, please… help me save Lord Arum.”

A sensation, like the gentle pull of tides, and Damien closes his hand around the shaft.

From a distance, from high upon the wall, it looks like very little. A glimmer of pale blue light, barely visible against of the flaring red of sunset, shifting and wavering around the knight’s hand. He pulls the hand back, effortless, and the javelin slips from the monster with the motion. The light grows bolder, then, the wound flaring from the inside out with starlight fire, and before anyone can blink the pinprick blindness from their eyes, it is already over.

Sir Damien drops the weapon with disgust and a sob, and throws his arms around Rilla and the still – but still breathing – form of Lord Arum.

The sun finishes its slow descent, the last sliver of orange disappearing beneath the horizon, before anyone dares to make another move.

Sir Angelo backs away from the trio, putting himself in step with Sir Caroline. “Begads,” he says, soft and wondering, and Sir Caroline places a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him from saying anything else, her own expression masking confusion with irritation.

“What did you _do_ , witch?” Caroline hisses under her breath, and though she cannot see anyone, a bubbling voice tickles Caroline’s ear in response.

“Very, _very_ little, sweets. The dramatic bits had nothing to do with _me_ \- for once.” The voice breaks off in a giggle, and then resumes with a playful bounce. “All _I_ did was make sure all those stuffy suits of armor and prim and proper Queenie up there on the wall heard every little word of the pretty poet’s prayer.”

“Angelo,” Rilla calls, her arm still wrapped around Damien, around Arum. Angelo turns back towards them, then ducks his head instinctively at the exasperation in Rilla's eyes. “You know that I love you, Angelo, but that? That was a _remarkably_ stupid plan.”

* * *

 

“Bring them all inside,” Queen Mira says quietly, her knuckles pale from the force of her grip on the rampart in front of her. “All of them. And the m-” she pauses, and exhales slowly. “Bring Lord Arum to the infirmary.”

“My Queen-”

“Every one of you heard and saw as I did.” She aims sharp, intense eyes at the guards and knights that surround her, and every one of them averts their gaze. “Who among you would reach out a hand to undo the work of a Saint?”

No one speaks, and the high wind whistles past for a long, long moment.

“As I thought. Bring them inside.” She straightens, staring at the tableau below as her subjects scurry around her, obeying. “The intervention of a Saint…” she murmurs, watching Sir Damien’s shoulders shake with the force of his emotion, as Amaryllis clings to the both of them, as the dirt dries from red to dull brown in the fading light. “A miracle… for a monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, I think. I hope you're all still along for the ride, despite the stress involved!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more conversation, and a proper reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one... got well and truly away from me. Note that this chapter is about double the length of any of the others. Sorry about that, I think? I don't know if consistent chapter length is a concern other folks have or if it's just a writer anxiety. Couldn't justify splitting this into two, though, so here it is in its entirety. I hope y'all enjoy this, and I hope you're satisfied with the whole dang mess. Thank you so, so so much for reading! The Penumbra has very quickly become an incredibly important part of my life, and the fandom has been just as wonderful as the podcast itself. You're all amazing and this fic wouldn't exist without your encouragement and kindness.

All four of Arum’s wrists and both of his ankles are bound when he wakes, securing him tightly to a stiff human bed. He starts to try to pull out of it before he even opens his eyes, twisting his hands and trying to snake his claws under the bindings, his tail curling around the chain by his left foot, but the movement pulls at a tightness in his midsection and suddenly he remembers-

The quite singular sensation of being impaled. The unshakable knowledge of his own death. The way it felt, to have Damien and Amaryllis hold him as he faded.

And finally, Damien. Glowing like a falling star, eyes closed and hands cool on his scales, magic burning the pain out, burning the weapon out, and knitting him back together.

Impossible. An impossible dream- a hallucination, surely. His eyes snap open and he tries to crane his neck to see the injury that must still be there, but there is a thin blanket pulled up over him, covering the offending area. He frowns, and then he hears a prim, pointed cough from off to his right.

If he was unbound he likely would have leapt to the ceiling in shock. As things stand, he jerks against his shackles, hissing as the movement jars his wrists and pulls at the strange dull pain in his ribs. He whips his head towards the source of the noise, and is confronted by the placid face of a complete stranger. A human, obviously, but not one of the ones he knows. Small and swathed in silks, standing stiffly and watching him with keen, guarded eyes.

He watches her with equal wariness for the space of a few breaths, long enough to figure out that she is the only one in the room, and that she appears unarmed.

“Imagine my surprise, to find myself so decidedly un-slain,” he drawls after the pause, projecting a defensive air of indifference.

“Though not for lack of trying,” the woman says, matching his tone.

Arum can still feel the wound, but only when he focuses. Can feel something just slightly wrong, above his stomach, and on his back as well now that he’s paying more attention. He wants to know what, precisely, happened, and how desperate his condition remains, but he does not think this woman will tell him if he asks. Besides, he has a much more important line of questioning to pursue.

“Where are my- where are they?”

The woman stares down at him and Arum’s scales shiver with discomfort at the stranger’s keen gaze. The pause drags on too long and Arum asks again.

“Stop that,” he hisses. “Tell me where they are. Did-” he grits his teeth, but he’s too tired, too worried to stop himself from asking. “What happened to them? Are they hurt? If there is even a _scratch_ on them I’ll- What have you done with them?”

“Nothing,” she answers at last. “I’ve done nothing to them. Technically speaking, however, they are both still being detained.”

“ _Detained_ ,” Arum sneers, wishing he had at least one of his hands free, if only to gesture with. “I kept _my_ end of the bargain, you know. That knight was returned to the Citadel in perfect condition, regardless of the incompetence of those archers. _Technically speaking_ , my- Sir Damien and Amaryllis should have been freed.”

“ _Your_ Sir Damien,” the woman echoes, and he finally manages to catch a hint of the emotion hiding behind the words. There is… confusion, there. Disbelief.

He tilts his chin up, frill flaring halfway. There is very little of his dignity left to save, at this point. “ _My_ Damien. _My_ Amaryllis.”

“Hm.”

“Who _are_ you?” he grates out, eyes flicking anxiously around the room again, searching for other threats. “Are you some sort of- _healer_?” There’s a sneer in the last word, emphasizing his disdain for any medical professionals who are not Amaryllis. “You don’t look much like one. An interrogator? Or is this to be a very, very irritating execution?”

She narrows her eyes as if she does not quite believe him, though about what he is unsure. On instinct he flicks his tongue out, and- oddly, he recognizes her scent. He’s quite sure he’s never seen her before, but there is something familiar there he cannot quite place.

“The question of your fate has not yet been decided,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You have become the focal point of a very complicated situation.”

“A monster taking a knight captive is a situation that _typically_ ends one of two ways,” he says. “In one of two deaths.”

“You were never going to hurt Sir Angelo,” she says, and he flinches before her tone really sinks in. She isn’t pointing this out to humiliate him- she is saying it as if she is trying to make herself believe it. Trying to make herself _understand_ it.

He hesitates, his shoulders hunching. “I… that is…”

“When a shot was fired - an accident, you should know, and not an intentional attempt to derail the exchange - you pushed Sir Angelo down first. I saw how fast you moved after that, pulling the arrow from the air with barely a flick of your wrist. If you so desired, you could have avoided the arrow entirely, and let it hit the knight instead. Let the folly of my archers become a self-inflicted punishment. You _chose_ to prioritize Sir Angelo’s safety over your own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters, glancing to the side. “He- have you- the little Knight was not damaged during the- the chaos, was he?”

“No,” Mira says. “He is somewhat shaken by the events of last evening, but unharmed. Though, it has become apparent that he was not precisely an _unwilling_ participant in the negotiations between you and I, and I am unsure exactly what to do with that knowledge.”

Arum winces, then blinks in confusion. “Wait… my negotiations with _you_?”

She tilts her head at him. “You truly do not know who I am?”

He grimaces, flicking his eyes towards her one more time to see if anything at all jogs his memory. “You little creatures are too numerous to count; am I honestly supposed to keep track of every single one of you that scurries around this hive?”

The corner of her lip twitches, almost, _almost_ a smile. “No, but perhaps it would be in your best interest to know the leader of your enemy.”

“My what?” he frowns, then understanding bolts through him. He hasn’t thought about the scent from that scrap of silk in months, and her voice- it sounds much different now than how it did when she was calling down from on high. “You’re- _you_ are the Queen?”

“And you are Lord Arum. We have corresponded, though in a decidedly one-directional manner.”

Arum jerks his head back in alarm, glancing around the sterile, empty room again for signs of other eyes on the pair of them.

“ _Why_?” he asks in a growl, and when she raises her eyebrow in a question he continues. “Why are you _here_? What are you playing at, coming in here to confront a monster without bodyguards, without arms? I was told you were supposed to be _wise_.”

She- actually smiles, at that, and gives a single breath of laughter before she catches herself. “I believe that you may have quoted my head bodyguard nearly verbatim, just now. My safety is of no concern, however. There are more guards than are strictly necessary just outside the door. They will hear if I shout, of course, but I did not wish for prying eyes and listening ears for this… meeting.”

“Why?” Arum asks again, more suspicious than ever.

“I believe it is important that I observe you myself. Converse with you on my own terms. Without interference.”

“Important to gather intelligence on your ‘enemy’ personally?” he growls, lowering his head. “Little human Queen doesn’t know how to delegate… how precious.”

“There is a decision that must be made very soon, and it lies solely in my hands,” she says quietly, her eyes looking somewhere past him. “I would like to know as much as I can about the situation before time runs out.”

Arum stares at her for a moment before it clicks. “Honeysuckle,” he breathes.

“Pardon?”

“Sir Damien,” he corrects, pulling on his shackles again in his distress. “He- you will make that decision yourself, then? His fate, his life-”

“Yes.”

Arum exhales, then straightens as best he can while halfway horizontal. “And to what fate will you send him?”

“The decision has not been made, as of yet. We are nearing the deadline, but there is still time.”

“Don’t- don’t toy with me,” he snarls. “I know how humans operate. I know he has broken your petty little rules, and I know what happens to rule-breakers in human society. You will have him killed. Do not try to _lie_ to me, _takatakataka_.”

She is watching him, distant and inscrutable and calculating. It crawls like spiders up his scales, being observed so closely.

“What will you do, if you are correct?” she asks, quite quietly.

Arum tries to hide his flinch, but his frill is certainly giving him away. “I imagine if he is executed, I shall face a similar fate,” he says dismissively. “You would not just let me _go_.”

“A fair point. Indulge me, though. If you were free, and Sir Damien were to be executed, what would you do?”

Arum works his jaw silently for a moment. “To what fate would Amaryllis go, human Queen?”

The Queen sighs. “Her position is… complicated as well. In her own way she admitted to the same treason as Sir Damien, but her potential punishments are less severe. The strictures upon a Knight of the Crown are far greater than those upon a single herbalist who does not even live within the Citadel. For the purposes of this hypothetical, let us assume that she shall be returned to Exile.” She turns her gaze back towards him. “What action would you then take?”

Arum looks away, tongue flicking anxiously as he considers the question, considers how honestly to answer. “I don’t understand why it matters to you,” he says, weary. “I don’t even understand why you are speaking to me. Why I have been kept alive.”

“It does not matter if you understand why,” Queen Mira says, “but it does matter how you answer.”

Arum ducks his head, letting his eyes slip closed. Truth will be easier, if he can pretend to be saying this only to himself. “If Sir Damien were executed, I would ask Amaryllis what she wished to do. I would ask her if it would be too painful for her to stay by my side when I- when I had been the cause of our honeysuckle’s death. If she would still have me, we would return to my home, and we would mourn. Mourn, and discover if our broken edges still fit together without our third piece.” He swallows, blinks his eyes back open and ignores the heat he can feel at their corners, and then fixes the Queen with a glare. “There. Are you happy? Does that satisfy you? If you so desire, I am sure there are deeper depths to which I could debase myself, _takatakataka_.”

She- nods, after a pause. “Thank you,” she says, and the words sound stilted and awkward in her mouth, and Arum sneers automatically at her gratitude. “Now. To answer your questions as best as I am able. May I remove this sheet?” She gestures to the thin blanket covering him, and Arum gives a confused nod of his own, unsure how the two thoughts are related. She reaches forward, face placid, but he can see the very slight tremble in her hand as she pulls the fabric down.

The place where he had been pierced through looks-

The wound looks months old, not quite healed but _healing_ , new scales growing shiny and bright around the edges, sealing the gap.

“Damien…” Arum breathes, unable to tear his eyes from the magic that has been done to him. “I thought… I was convinced it could not have been real…”

“This is why you are still alive,” Mira says. “In more than one way.”

“Explain,” Arum says, narrowing his eyes. “What- how did he do this? Magic, it must be magic-”

“Sir Damien prayed to his namesake,” she says, and finally she pulls a chair closer and sinks to sit with a sigh. “He prayed to a Saint for the sake of a monster, and his prayer was answered. Answered quite definitively, I would say. And therein lies the problem.”

“The… problem?” he says, finally looking away from the sullen welt on his midsection and meeting the gaze of the Queen again. She looks tired, he realizes. Tired, confused, and thoughtful.

“You were saved by the grace of a Saint, Lord Arum. To kill you after that…”

“Couldn’t possibly be a worse heresy than praying for a monster in the first place,” Arum mutters, and the Queen’s breath catches on a small laugh.

“Some would agree with you,” she admits.

Arum frowns. “And… you, little Queen?”

Mira doesn’t answer immediately, breathing slow with her eyes downcast until Arum grows worried again. “ _This slim hope_ ,” she says eventually, and Arum realizes with a jolt that she is repeating the words of Damien’s prayer. “ _This proof that the river between Arum's kin and our own has the potential to run placid_ …” She raises her eyes to meet his own. “He has quite a particular way of putting things, does he not?”

“Professional prattler,” Arum rasps, clenching his fists. “And a naive one, at that.”

“So you do not believe as Sir Damien does, Lord Arum? That some sort of peace could be reached?”

“Of _course_ not, the very idea of it is- is…” he grimaces, then sighs. “Damien… Damien and Amaryllis and I have found… an understanding.” An understatement, but if he grows any more embarrassed he’s liable to actually damage the scales at his wrists pulling on his bindings. “I do not know if that means that monsterkind and your own people are capable of the same. Magic is unpredictable, like that.”

“Magic,” the Queen repeats, something cold and suspicious in her tone, and Arum blinks, confusion joining the tangle of embarrassment he feels.

“Are…” he bares his teeth, glancing aside uncomfortably. “Are bonds of romantic affection… _not_ seen as a manifestation of magic by you mammals?”

She stares at him for a long, wondering moment, and then her cheeks darken noticeably. It’s a human tell that Arum has seen on Damien countless times, but Arum cannot fathom what it could possibly indicate in the Queen. “I…” she coughs, delicately. “I suppose, metaphorically, love is often thought of in that way.”

Arum winces. He would do very well indeed if he never again heard the word ‘love’ from the mouth of any but his herbalist and his poet. It is _unbearably_ sentimental. “Yes, well, whatever you call it, it is _unpredictable_. Another monster could be in a position such as mine and not- there were many points at which the three of us could have crumbled apart. Killed one another. Hurt one another too much to forgive. It is difficult to say whether humans and monsters are capable of understanding each other at large, or if what we have achieved together is… something entirely unique. Unreproducible, as Amaryllis might say. So,” he draws himself up slightly, “could there be peace? Perhaps. Perhaps the conflict may happen to align perfectly to allow it; the universe has done stranger, less probable things. But from what I have seen of both of our sides, it seems far more likely that monsterkind will behave too unpredictably, with too little agreement between the lot of us, and your people will be too unwilling to forgive mistakes, and misunderstandings.”

“That is… a rather articulate and nuanced position.”

Arum’s lip pulls up in a sneer. “Were you expecting me to merely snarl and gnash my teeth?”

“I had very little idea what to expect,” she says, unselfconscious. “I have never spoken at length with a monster before.”

“Nor I a Queen,” Arum says dismissively. “So what?”

She smiles again, and it seems to come easier this time. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply any lack of intelligence on your part.”

Arum’s frown deepens. “What are you _apologizing_ for? I’m a _monster_ , have you forgotten? You may play nice for as long as you wish, you are _Queen_ of these creatures and they must obey your whims, but when all the game is played out, when you have run out of all your questions and hypotheticals, I will still be myself and your people will still expect but _one_ outcome. Saved by magic or your Saints or whatever else, I will not escape this Citadel with my life and we _both_ know it, _takatakataka_.” He bares his teeth again, ducking his head to emphasize the force of his glare. “It seems a cruelty beyond stating to pretend anything else, and I have grown tired of the game, little Queen. I demand you make your decision regarding Sir Damien and Amaryllis and get on with killing me. Either my death will protect them or it will mean I will not be forced to see them fall to ruin, and either outcome would be preferable to this pointless interrogation.”

She tilts her head, and something about the sad confusion in her expression fills Arum with even more potent anger, and she asks in a small sort of voice, “You… you honestly, truly care about them, don’t you?”

Arum chokes on his breath and it turns into a bizarre laugh, rattling and hoarse and joyless. “That-” he nearly chokes again, pulling at the shackles without meaning to. “You- of all the ridiculous- _that_ is what you choose to disbelieve? I am laid bare before you in nearly every sense of the term _only_ for want of their freedom, I could have died for them - I _tried_ to die for them - and you cannot understand that I _love them_? That is the point you cannot comprehend, the bridge you refuse to cross? You- you are an unfathomable _fool_ , little Queen.”

After a long moment Queen Mira stands again, and Arum’s terrible laughter dies out. He tenses automatically as she walks past him, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches the door. When she cracks it open and leans halfway out, he hears the clatter of what he can only guess is a ridiculous number of armored knights startling, and then she murmurs something just barely too quiet for Arum to hear. One of the others outside says, quite distinctly, _are you certain_ , and then her voice comes again, no less quiet but certainly harder, and colder. She closes the door again, but she stays beside it. She turns her head, just enough so he can see one of her eyes, and the strange, contemplative curve of her mouth.

“Amaryllis told me,” she says, “that I must look to the evidence in front of me, and not be blinded by what I fear.”

“She is more brilliant by far than the whole lot of you put together,” he growls, too distracted by worry about the words she exchanged outside to really process what she’s said to him properly. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway, because she doesn’t respond. She stands, facing away, and keeps her hand pressed to the door until there is a light knocking and she opens it again.

The high-voiced knight comes in first, eyes wary, and behind her are Sir Damien and Rilla. Arum lurches against his bindings with his entire weight at their sight, a breathless noise escaping him. _She_ _’s going to have them beheaded in front of me_ , he thinks first, wildly, and his body goes cold at the thought. They are standing unbound, though, looking wary but not afraid, and the knight does not even have her hand near her hilt.

When Damien and Rilla notice him and both step toward him in response to his movement, the knight throws her arm out like a branch, halting them, her attention on the Queen as if waiting for permission.

“Sir Caroline. Unlock the shackles on Lord Arum,” Mira says, and every pair of eyes in the room swing towards her in some combination of surprise and alarm.

“Whatever you say, my Queen,” Caroline drawls after an awkward moment.

“Were you _detaining_ them next door to us, little Queen?” Arum says as Caroline approaches, trying to pave over his confusion and momentary panic. “They arrived rather quickly- unless your dungeon is adjacent to your infirmary-”

“I said they were being detained, not that they were in the dungeon. Sir Damien required some medical attention as well, and he is-” she sighs, “rather particular about his attending physician, so they have both been nearby.”

Arum rubs his wrists once Caroline unshackles enough of them to do so, craning his neck to try to see where Damien is hurt. “Medical attention? What happened? You claimed you had done nothing to them-”

“My Queen spoke truth,” Damien says softly, and Arum’s claws twitch at the sound of his voice. Damien lifts a bandaged hand with an embarrassed half smile and a shrug. “Saintly power is… a rather formidable imposition upon mortal flesh, I have learned.”

“It’s a burn,” Rilla supplies. “Not a terribly bad one, thankfully. Because I didn’t already have _enough_ to worry about.”

Damien ducks his head as if chastened, but Rilla takes his unburned hand in her own and squeezes, and he smiles again, a little less tightly. Arum swings his legs from the bed and stands the moment Caroline is done undoing the bonds at his ankles, intending to go to them the moment he is able, but it’s only when he is on his feet that he realizes that he feels entirely drained, exhausted from the bones out. He tries to hide the way he sways on his feet by pretending to lean back against the bed deliberately, but he can tell that Rilla, at least, is not fooled.

“Is this another _test_ , Queen?” he asks instead, gesturing to his unbound state. “Like your questions?”

“No. No more of that, I think,” Mira says, and then she glances to Damien and Rilla. “You may go to him.”

Damien looks to the Queen in bewilderment, but it’s a brief look because Rilla moves forward and she’s still clinging to his hand.

There is a half second of hesitation when they are close; Arum can’t help the unease he feels at the nearby near-strangers when he wants his humans in his arms, especially considering that he is unclothed from the waist up. Sir Caroline, however, is staring decidedly away from them, apparently at nothing, and Mira discreetly drops her gaze down and to the side, so when Rilla is within arms reach he damns his discomfort and reaches. He pulls her into his chest and Damien next to her, and Arum can taste the salt on the air that means his knight is overwhelmed enough to fall to tears.

Arum clings to them as tightly as he dares, as tightly as the weariness of his body will allow, his tail wrapping around them with a shivering of scales. He glares over their heads one more time to make sure others in the room still have their eyes safely aimed away, and when he is satisfied that they are not under scrutiny he lowers his head, pressing his face into Damien’s neck. He _needs_ to feel the pulse there, heat and life and sweetness, vulnerable and unsure whenever these two soft creatures are out of his sight. The position has the added effect of allowing him to feel the way Damien’s breath is hitching, and the words he is barely, barely managing to whisper.

“… so _so_ sorry,” he breathes against Arum’s scales, over and over and over. “Oh Saints I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ -”

“Hush, honeysuckle,” Arum murmurs with a rumble in his chest, stroking a hand through Damien’s hair. “You are the only one who blames yourself for any of this.” Damien chokes, melting into Arum’s chest, and Arum is grateful for the bed behind him because otherwise the added weight might have actually made his legs buckle. “Shh,” he hisses, “shhhhh, little poet.”

Rilla’s hand presses against his midsection and he winces, pulling back enough to give her a wary glance. Her brow furrows, pinpoint focused as she skillfully investigates what remains of his injury, her fingers careful but firm against his scales, and he can’t help his small breath of laughter at the intensity in her gaze. She scowls up at him and he grins in response, her irritation at magic in general feeling both familiar and safe.

“I’m alright, Amaryllis,” he says, and her eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah? You’re shaking, Arum.”

He blinks, swallowing uncomfortably when he realizes that she isn’t wrong. His hands, his legs are trembling with the effort it is taking to stand. He leans a little more heavily on the bed, and winces when Damien looks up at him with nervous, shining eyes. “Merely- I am merely fatigued. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Rilla says, and then she gently pushes Damien aside so she can examine Arum in earnest.

“If you _insist_ , doctor,” he mutters in a growl, but it’s impossible to hide the way he instantly relaxes at her touch; purposeful and soothing and practiced, while Damien clings to his left arms and rests his forehead on Arum’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice that his eyes have slipped closed until Rilla pats her hand on his cheek and he blinks them back open. She’s close, still frowning though her expression has softened as she checks his pupils, and he flicks his tongue out to tickle the tip of her nose. That startles a laugh out of her, which was precisely the effect Arum hoped it would have, and then she looks up at him with a wry smile, her hand dropping from his face to rest on his shoulder.

“You may have been magically healed, but you still lost a lot of blood before that,” she says in her most businesslike tones. “You’re fairly dehydrated, probably anemic though I don’t know _exactly_ what that looks like on a lizard, and I’m concerned about how exhausted you seem even after resting for as long as you did- I’m assuming you slept through the night? And, by the way, you pulled your wrists bloody on those shackles and I bet you didn’t even _notice_.”

She’s right, again, and he ducks his head and frowns as she pulls his hands toward her one by one to treat and bandage.

“I hope you have some understanding of my position,” the Queen says, apparently having decided that they have had enough time with themselves.

“Which part?” Rilla says sharply, not looking. “The part with that arrow, or the part where Arum got _impaled_?”

“The arrow was a regrettable accident,” Mira says. “Someone too inexperienced on the wall with the rest of the archers, and a slip of the hand. Sir Absolon, however, saw an opportunity and leapt without consulting with anyone else about his _strategy_.”

There’s a coldness in Mira’s voice, then, and Rilla blinks when she hears it though she does not pause in her work. Damien makes a small, unhappy noise at Absolon’s name, and Arum pulls him closer automatically.

“And if he _had_ consulted you?” Arum asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

She pauses as if considering the question very seriously. “The moment would have passed before he could,” she murmurs. “He chose to act unilaterally, because the alternative would have been not to act at all. However, I saw- _everyone_ saw that you chose to push Sir Angelo out of the way. That did not go unnoticed. I think even if the Saintly intervention had not occurred, the rumors would have become an issue quite quickly.”

“Rumors?” Damien pipes up, voice pitching high and concerned. “What rumors?”

Mira purses her lips and sighs. “We may have cleared the gate of civilians,” she says wryly, “but that meant they were all _aware_ that there was a situation that required them to be cleared. Besides that, there is the fact that the sheer number of knights and guards involved in the exchange could never be expected to keep silent about all that they saw.” She turns her head slightly away from the trio. “What, precisely, are they calling Lord Arum in the city now, Sir Caroline?”

Caroline huffs a breath, as if she had been hoping to remain unnoticed. “Saint-Touched,” she says begrudgingly. “They are calling him Saint-Touched, according to my second in command. There are many wildly inaccurate versions of the story flying around the streets, of course, but the healing itself seems to factor in all of them, and the monster protecting Sir Angelo seems to be a large part of the discussion as well.”

Arum stiffens, hissing under his breath. The idea of an entire city of humans, of strangers, whispering about him, about his near-death and his saving- it makes him want to crawl back to the Keep and find a dark corner to hide in for a decade or two.

“So now you’re worried about people thinking it’ll be blasphemy if you have Arum killed, aren’t you?” Rilla says, finishing the last of the bandages on Arum’s wrists. She keeps hold of one of his hands, though, squeezing gently as she angles her body so she’s between Arum and the Queen. “Blasphemy to kill Damien too, probably, since it was _his_ prayer that got answered.”

Mira squeezes the bridge of her nose for a moment, sighing again. “Yet others are crying that this must have been merely another deception, as Saint Damien would never grant so unholy a prayer for so unholy a beast.” The words are quick and toneless and audibly irritated.

“And what of you, my Queen?” Damien asks softly, from the arms of his monster. “Do you still believe as you did yesterday morn?”

Mira presses her hands together briefly before she turns and steps closer to the three of them, within arms reach. She looks up, and then further up, until she can meet Arum’s violet eyes with her own searching gaze. “You could have killed Sir Angelo, could kill everyone in this room with merely your claws if you so desired, exhaustion or no,” she says, slowly. “I still don’t understand what makes you different from your kin - or if you even _are_ different from your kin - but I believe that Sir Damien and Amaryllis were correct in their estimation of you.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Arum growls sardonically, flaring his frill and shifting in discomfort even as Damien sighs in obvious relief. “I’m so _pleased_ to have earned your _approval_.”

Rilla presses her lips together hard to bury a smile at the same time that Damien inhales sharply. The Queen, however, does not seem bothered by his tone.

“Hm. You will likely be unhappy about this phrasing, but it is necessary,” she says with a wry smile, and Arum narrows his eyes in confusion. She takes a deep breath, lifts her chin, and then she says, “By the will of the Saints above, and by the authority of the Crown, Sir Damien the Pious, Amaryllis of Exile, and Lord Arum,” she pauses to breathe a laugh, “the Saint-Touched, you are all hereby granted pardon. Lord Arum, you are now under the protection of my rule, and no Knight of the Crown may harm you.”

“Huh,” Rilla says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, my _Queen_.” Damien presses a hand to his heart, voice wavering. “Oh, by the Saints above, oh I cannot believe-”

“I am not even one of your subjects,” Arum says, baring his teeth. “Not even a _human_. _Can_ you even pardon me?”

Mira blinks, then looks up at the monster with an expression of exquisite innocence. “Who, precisely, do you believe would attempt to tell me what I am and am not allowed to do?”

Arum laughs without meaning to, and then laughs again when the reality of the situation settles softly on his shoulders, the tension he’s been holding since Sir Angelo burst onto his balcony yesterday finally, finally easing. He isn’t going to die here. _Damien_ isn’t going to die here, none of them are, they will actually be able to go _home_ -

“Little Queen,” he says warmly, “you may have some monstrous instincts of your own, I think.”

“He means that as a compliment,” Damien adds quickly.

“When you feel strong enough,” Mira says, and then she pauses. “When your _doctor_ says that you are strong enough, you will be provided with an escort out of the city, for your own safety, and you may return to… the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms, I believe Sir Damien said?” She pauses, and Arum nods. “Rather, you may go wherever you like. In the meantime, while you are convalescing I will put my words here to official decree, and make my decision known.”

“My Queen!” Damien exclaims again.

“Some will call me mad,” she says, tone more casual than it has been this entire time. “But others will listen. Others are _ready_ to listen.”

“I mean,” Rilla says, “I don’t know about these two, but _I_ would certainly feel a lot better getting out of here sooner rather than later, before someone gets a stupid idea in their head about finishing what Absolon started.”

“I understand that,” the Queen says, picking her words carefully and slowly. “But I will not allow anything to happen to you now, not in my Citadel, and… it will be _important_ , I think, for the three of you to walk out of this place together. With your heads held high. I believe it would send a more effective message if your monster did so on steadier legs than he currently seems to possess.”

“Strategic,” Rilla says, sounding both irritated and impressed as Arum grumbles beside her. “Alright. We’ll do it your way, then.”

Mira nods. “Thank you. We shall… leave you to rest, now. When you are ready, let the guards know and I will see you off.” She tilts her head and looks up towards Arum again. “Though our first meeting was not exactly…” she flicks her eyes towards Rilla with a vague smile, “ _auspicious_ , Lord Arum, I hope that our acquaintance will continue to be as… enlightening as it has so far been.”

“And with fewer brandished weapons, if the universe grants,” Arum grumbles with a wry smile.

“Indeed.” She gives a light laugh. “Sir Damien, Amaryllis, I…” she pauses, “I apologize. Despite my intentions I was both cruel and rash, and it is only by the grace of the Saints that my mistakes did not cause irreparable harm.”

Rilla’s jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing, but Damien wilts slightly. “My Queen, I never doubted that your clarity of vision, your wisdom would win out in the end.”

“Never?” Mira says, her eyebrow raising in a skeptical arch. “Not for a moment, Sir Damien?”

“Well- er…” he clasps his hands together in front of himself, eyes flicking uncomfortably away. “That is… I _hoped_. I hoped that you would see truth, even if I harbored concerns that you could not.”

Mira closes her eyes in a self-deprecating smile. “The truth always sounds much better in your voice, Sir Damien. I should have known it by sound when yesterday we spoke.” She opens he eyes again, nods, and starts towards the door. “As I said. When you feel prepared to leave, inform the guards. I have… quite an imposing amount of work in my immediate future, I am sure you understand. Sir Caroline?”

Caroline doesn’t straighten, exactly, because her posture has been ramrod stiff since she entered, but she does come to attention and fall into step with the Queen, pulling the door open in front of her. Mira graces the trio with one more glance as she exits, accompanied by a subtle smile.

Sir Caroline, for her part, merely leaves and closes the door behind her.

Arum exhales in an exaggerated hiss when they are safely alone, and then he sags more fully against Damien, against the bed. “Not my preferred morning conversation,” he mutters, “but I suppose it could have been far, far worse.”

Rilla crosses the room to a basin of water waiting in the corner and fills a cup, and she shoves it firmly into Arum’s hand when she returns. “Rehydrate,” she instructs, and Arum rolls his eyes but obeys. He is grateful for the coolness on his tongue, and as he drains the cup he becomes suddenly aware of how thirsty he is. The feeling hadn’t really registered above the rest of his exhaustion, dull pain, and panic. She goes to get him a second cup, and he drains that one too.

Damien is worryingly quiet, and Arum grows still more worried when he glances down and sees the growing expression of distress on the poet’s face.

“Honeysuckle,” he murmurs, passing the empty cup back to Rilla and brushing a hand down Damien’s arm. “What-”

“You called yourself a _shackle of monstrosity_ , as if you were some sort of- of _imposition_ upon me,” Damien mutters suddenly, furiously. “I cannot believe you- how could you attempt to discard yourself so carelessly?”

Arum frowns, thrown by the sudden turn of mood. “Oh spare me, honeysuckle” he says, embarrassed to be made to confront words he thought belonged on his deathbed. “Do not pretend that you were not planning for your own dramatic execution, fully expecting to leave us behind.”

“How about the _both_ of you stop trying to get yourselves killed at every damned opportunity?” Rilla says in a sharp voice, eyes bright. “Do you have any idea how _exhausting_ it is to be in love with two idiots without an ounce of self preservation between the two of them?”

“ _You_ marched into the Citadel on your own, Amaryllis,” Arum snarls, mortified by the way his voice cracks and wavers, “knowing full well that you could have been marching to your own arrest as _he_ had, without even stopping to _speak_ with me. You should have come to me. You should have _come home_ and we could have- could have concocted a plan _together_.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Arum, but I couldn’t wait-”

“You left me _alone_ , do you have any idea- what would I do if either of you were hurt? If _both_ of you- I could have lost the both of you and then-”

“We almost _did_ lose you,” Rilla says, quieter as she gently traces her fingers along the edge of the almost-scar. “It- clearly we all fucked up on the way here, okay Arum? It was- it was a terrible situation and we all… did the best we could, I think. We made mistakes, and I’m sorry for sending Angelo when I should have come to you myself, but I can’t change what’s past, Arum.”

Arum gamely pretends that he hasn’t started shaking again. He hisses, not quite a concession, and wraps two of his arms around her. She smells like clean linen, disinfectant, like her own sweet self. Damien slides into the embrace as well when he reaches out, and the fact that he and Amaryllis are alive and safely in his clutches is far more important than any other thing in the world.

After a moment Rilla pushes him back. “You need to get off your feet. To rest.” When Arum grumbles under his breath she scowls, pushing him again until he’s fully on the bed. “The quicker you get your strength back the quicker we can get the hell out of the Citadel.”

“The quicker we can go home,” Damien says softly.

“Fine,” Arum hisses. Then, he reaches over and Damien yelps as Arum drags him up onto the bed with him, tucking his head under Arum’s chin and rumbling deep in his chest as he settles. “But I refuse to lay in this stuffy human room on my own.”

“Arum!” Damien squeaks. “Put me down-”

“Please,” he says, and Damien stills. “I cannot… I don’t think I can sleep if… I need to feel your heart beating, honeysuckle.” He reaches a hand out, and he hears Rilla sigh fondly before she crawls up on the other side of the small bed, nestling in against him.

“Okay, okay, fine,” she murmurs, her own hand resting over Arum’s heart. “Will you behave now?”

“Never,” he murmurs into her hair. “But I will rest, Amaryllis, so long as you both stay with me.”

 

* * *

 

They do walk out together with their heads held high, as Mira said. With their hands clasped together as well, for good measure, with Sir Angelo grinning broadly beside them and Sir Caroline looking put-upon at their back. There are whispers again, of course, and stares, but the curious and wondering faces outnumber those contorted in fury or disgust, and they have very little energy to spare for their audience regardless. Arum needs every ounce of concentration merely to continue forward, pushing through the vague burn of strain in his limbs, and any remaining focus he spares only to lift his head as pridefully as he can, and to feel Amaryllis supporting him on one side, and Damien on the other. They guide his steps through the unfamiliar streets, gracefully disguising the moments when he needs to lean on them to keep his stride even.

His cape had been unwearable; barely purple at all anymore beneath the blackish-red stain, but the Queen had provided a spare. It is slightly shorter, but wide enough to cover him properly; pale blue silk with a vague shimmer of purple that he can drape around himself just enough to hide his injury. Damien was the one who pointed out with shining, gleeful eyes that the color was near exactly that of the glow of the Saint-fire, but Arum cannot bring himself to care. The cloth serves the purpose it must, be it colored like magic or merely like myrtle.

Sir Caroline leaves them at the gate, giving a curt nod before she returns to her duties. Sir Angelo walks them to the edge of the trees, and keeps an eye open for watching eyes as Rilla pulls a bag of dirt from the pockets of her skirt and summons a portal back home.

The Keep spends a good five minutes clutching Arum in its vines and trilling a terrified reprimand at him until he begrudgingly apologizes for his brush with death, the pain and fear it could feel in him even miles distant, and then it pokes and prods at Rilla and Damien until it is satisfied with their safety as well.

Damien sighs deeply as they nestle together on their own bed. It hasn’t even been two full days since they were like this last, but the memory of safety had grown so distant in that short time that the homecoming feels raw. Earned.

“None of this is going to be easy,” he says softly. “That baker in the square, Dominick? He would have thrown that entire basket of rolls at all of us if Sir Caroline had not glared him down, I think, and I doubt Sir Absolon and I will ever speak amicably again. It will be quite some time before things in the Citadel manage to settle back down.”

“But we’re all alive,” Rilla says, exhaling as if she’s been holding her breath this entire time. “We’re okay, we’re _safe_. The rest of it- we’ll figure it out, somehow.”

“Together,” Arum says, his eyes slipping closed again. “We shall figure it out together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, from the bottom of my heart. I've never finished publishing a multi-chapter work before, and the fact that I've done so in less than a month now should say something about how much this fic and this fandom mean to me. I'm at jakkubrat over on tumblr if any of you would be interested in watching me flail about writing process and try to make Lizard Kissin' Tuesday happen. I'll also probably be putting up a behind-the-scenes post about this fic there too in the next couple days, just for funsies. Thank you all again! I love you!


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